


He'll never change his ways [English version]

by Lleu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 30,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lleu/pseuds/Lleu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"30 independent drabbles/ficlets for the '30 days of writing' challenge. Not necessarily related to each other or organized chronologically within the timeline." [Translation from <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuai/pseuds/tuai">tuai</a>'s <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/429293/chapters/724684">original Spanish</a>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [He'll never change his ways](https://archiveofourown.org/works/429293) by [tuai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuai/pseuds/tuai). 



> Translator's note: I hope you enjoy this story as much as I did — as I said to tuai, the first five chapters left me breathless, and I haven't quite gotten my breath back since. Note that I'm going to put any future translator's notes as endnotes.

One day Stiles gets up and realizes that he's going out with Derek. Going out. He's never gone out with anyone before, but he's sure that that's what it is.

Since the hunters started to ignore their existence and and the rest of the supernatural beings seemed to have erased Beacon Hills from their maps, the almost daily meetings to make action plans stopped making sense. That was good news, because everyone's lives were in less danger now that the werewolves had gotten back to the top of the food chain, but it was hard for Stiles to stop going to Derek's house after lacrosse practice. Really, they don't have anything to do anymore, nothing really important, so he sticks to organizing the books about lycanthropy that he got online for Derek to start replacing his library, helping him with little chores around the house to make it more livable, doing his history homework on the dining room table while Derek corrects all his mistakes because, apparently, he's an American history freak. And if it gets late they have some dinner, and if they find a movie they both want to see they sit down on the couch with some popcorn and wait for Stiles to — inevitably — fall asleep in the first twenty minutes.

Stiles has never gone out with anyone, but he thinks this is basically what it would be like. Because Derek seems to have fun, although he only shows it by being slightly less hostile than usual. And he's never told him to stop showing up at his house, and although he keeps threatening bodily harm, he does it almost affectionately. It's adorable.

Stiles starts to figure out that something's going on when the rest of the pack shows up there one afternoon to bask in their Alpha. They do that sometimes, get together and roll around on the ground and chase each other through the woods, while Stiles and Allison chat about human things and try to ignore how utterly ridiculous it all is. Derek has taken off his shirt and is looking at his pack from a little ways off, and Stiles can't see his face but knows what expression he has on, the same that takes over every time they're all together, one that makes him seem more adult and more responsible, and, somehow, happier. As if he were finally complete.

"Hey, Derek!" he shouts, getting ready to tease him, something about what a loving father he is or how soft he's gotten, but he can only shut up, because when Derek turns to him and looks at him, he seems to light up. Him, his face, the whole universe.

"What?"

"What?" he says in a little whine, trying not to notice how his heart is beating as if he'd just fallen from the fifth floor.

"You called me," he says, and obviously he's noticed that something's up with Stiles, because he puts on an evil smile and crosses his arms.

"Oh. Did I really?" he says, swallowing. Because Derek's there with his planning terrible, dark things face, and his neck, and his pecs, and his arms, and his abs, and those other muscles like Vs at his hip, which nature only put there to torment teenagers.

"Stiles?"

"Hi."

"Hello, Stiles," Derek says. And _he_ notices there's something weird when he turns back to the wolves of his pack and his back muscles feel less tense.

So say they're going out, more or less, because there's something hard to explain happening between them. And it's okay, even if it's frustrating to wait for Derek to do something about it.

So one day, while he's helping him with his work about McCarthyism and witch hunts, marking all the little details that he thought were too much for his five page paper, which would turn into a five-part novel if he had to include them, Stiles kisses him. It's easy, really. Derek's behind him on his feet, and he has to lean forward to point out with a finger on the screen the place where he called McCarthy MacArthur, and he's so close to his lips that it's stupid to avoid it. He turns to him and closes his eyes and kisses him, and when Derek puts a hand on the back of his neck and opens his lips, the only thing he can think about is saying, "so we _are_ going out."

But he realizes it can wait.


	2. Accusation

Derek warns him almost five minutes before Stiles is able to hear his father parking his patrol car in the driveway. He knows it's tempting fate, but he doesn't let Derek leave through the window the way he usually does; he makes him stay and finish watching the movie with him because "this is the best scene, seriously, you'll shit bricks." And he has every intention of telling his father that Derek's in the house, lying on his bed watching _Alien_ , because it's not like they're doing anything bad. But as soon as the Sheriff comes in, Derek tenses up.

"He's not in a good mood. I'm going to go."

"Derek," he says, stopping him with a hand on his arm.

"He's tired."

"He's always tired."

"He's worried."

"He's the Sheriff. And he's my father. He's always tired and he's always worried," he insists. "And I feel like what's going on is that you're afraid of being officially introduced. I'm not going to drop that bombshell out of nowhere, okay? Baby steps. Start by saying the cat's missing before saying the cat's dead."

"What?"

"Didn't you ever have pets when you were little?"

"I'm home!" calls the Sheriff from the floor below, and Stiles jumps up.

"That's code for me to come talk to him," he says, going to the door. Before opening it he turns to Derek again. "If you're not here when I get back we're going to have a problem."

"Go."

"Seriously, Derek."

"I know you're serious. Go. He's waiting for you."

His father is warming up dinner in the microwave. He hasn't taken off his uniform, or even his gun, which is the first thing he does when he gets home, normally. He really does seem tired, and Stiles goes over to help him. He takes out silverware and a napkin, puts a glass on the table, and fills it with milk.

"How was your day?" he asks finally.

"I heard something funny today," his father says, although this doesn't look to Stiles like it's going to be funny. "Geller told me he saw you in town this afternoon with the Hale boy."

Perfect. Stiles can almost see Derek leaving through the window like the devil's on his heels, the coward.

"Geller's a traffic cop. I thought we didn't care what those pseudo-officers of the law have to say."

"So you're not denying it."

He can barely breathe. All his vital functions have been redirected to the part of his brain that handles short-term memory, trying to think where they could have run across Geller. He's pretty sure they didn't do anything that would give them away, because Derek isn't the kind of person who goes in for public displays of affection, but maybe there was some undertone that a police officer (even a second-rate traffic cop) could have caught. The way they walk too close to each other, or the way they look at each other.

"He's a friend. He's helping me with history homework." Which isn't entirely a lie.

"You had me take him in for murdering his own sister," his father answers, sitting down in front of his plate of macaroni and cheese. "Not that long ago."

"Dad! That was a terrible mistake. I don't even know why you're bringing it up. Let's just collectively forget about it, okay? Like the terrible mistake it was. And it shouldn't influence your opinion of Derek in the future."

Your cat's missing. Your son's going out around town with a guy six years older than him that he accused of murder. Your son's heterosexuality is gone.

"I know it was a mistake. Remember, I questioned him myself. That's what worries me."

"That he didn't kill her?"

"Stiles."

"Dad."

He chews a couple forkfuls of macaroni before answering, and Stiles wants to grab him by the collar and shake him until he talks.

"He hasn't had a pleasant life, son," he says finally. "It's understandable that he'd be a troubled young man, after everything that's happened."

"He's not troubled!" Stiles says. "He's mature, and sensible, and he worries about everyone else."

"Stiles, son, I know you. You're a defender of lost causes and you've got a weakness for abandoned puppies, but sometimes, you know what?" He inclines his head meaningfully. "They've been abandoned so long that they don't know how to be any other way."

"Derek isn't an abandoned dog," he says, and he knows he sounds too offended for his father to keep ignoring the signs.

"I questioned him, Stiles. I asked him why he'd killed his sister and his expression didn't change. Anyone normal would have yelled, cried, begged. Derek Hale didn't bat an eyelash when he said he hadn't done it."

"And?"

"He's inhuman."

"Maybe he's superhuman."

"Stiles, please," he says, hunching his shoulders tiredly "I'm trying to be serious."

"Dad, you don't know him, okay? Maybe you questioned him, but you don't know him."

"And you do?"

"I'm trying to. You can't give up on someone just because he's had a bad life. His whole family's dead, so he doesn't deserve—?" He has to interrupt himself, because he can't believe what he's hearing. His fists are so tightly clenched he doesn't think he'll be able to open his hands. "What kind of person would do that, Dad? I thought you were—"

"No, don't blame me for trying to protect you," his father replies, calmly and patiently, not letting himself pick up Stiles's hostility. "Derek Hale isn't Scott or Lydia, or even the Whittemore kid. He's older, more dangerous than they are. And I've lost count of the number of times you've come home crying and mad because Scott did this or Lydia said that."

"But Derek—"

"I know he's not going to hurt you intentionally, Stiles," he assures him. "I know he's not a bad guy. But he's going to hurt you sooner or later and he won't be able to avoid it, because people who are broken don't know how to stop being broken. I'm not going to tell you not to see him, because I know that won't do anything. I won't even ask you to try. That's not what I want. I just hope you'll careful."

"I am careful," Stiles says.

"No, son, you're not. It's how you are, just like your mother. You're more worried about protecting everyone else than about taking care of yourself, and I try to do it for you, but you make it really hard sometimes."

"Dad."

"I trust you," he says, "because I know you're a good kid. You're smart, and you'll come out ahead whatever happens, and I like to think you know what you're doing. But I don't want you to get hurt."

"He wouldn't forgive himself if he hurt me," Stiles says. "He's a good person, Dad. He just doesn't know it sometimes."

The Sheriff looks at him for a long time and sighs, giving up.

"Does he...feel the same way?"

"Yes," he answers without hesitation. He can't even manage to be surprised that his father realized. Maybe he's known for a while and Stiles should have guessed it, because he's never said anything that wasn't necessary, and in the last ten minutes he's said more than in whole weeks.

"Well," he says finally, looking at the plate of macaroni. "I'm glad you've found someome, son. I just would have liked him to be...your age, and a bit less taciturn."

"He smiles now, sometimes," Stiles answers, and he feels himself smile remembering it.

"You know you can talk to me, whatever you need, right?"

"Yes, Dad," he answers, meaning it.

Stiles doesn't waste any time going back up to his room, and really he's not expecting Derek to still be there after hearing the whole conversation. But there he is in the same place he left him, sitting on the bed with his back straight and his face serious.

"That was an interesting conversation," Stiles says, to break the ice, and sits down next to him.

"Your father's right."

"No, he's not."

"I'll end up hurting you," he insists. "It's just a matter of time."

Stiles lets himself lean on Derek, putting his head on his shoulder, and doesn't let himself consider the possibility.

"Try not to. I'll try not to hurt _you_. Isn't that how it works?"

"I think it's a bit more complicated than that."

"Shut up, Derek."


	3. Restless

The _n_ th time Derek suggests he stop taking Adderall, Stiles gets annoyed. Really annoyed, because he's tired of even Derek not understanding it.

"You know what? I don't use it because I like it. The doctor doesn't prescribe it because he likes the way you wrinkle your nose when you smell it on me, Derek," he says, getting up from his chair. "You wouldn't tell a schizophrenic to stop taking his meds, or someone bipolar, or someone depressed. I'm sorry I'm not sick enough that you think it's serious."

"Stiles, you're hyperactive, you're not—"

"Fuck you," he says angrily.

"What?"

"You heard me," he mutters, crossing his arms, and he's so mad he doesn't even notice the way Derek opens and closes his mouth a few times before frowning at him. "It's a real thing, okay?"

"I didn't say it wasn't. Just that" — he swallows, and if it wasn't unthinkable he'd almost seem scared—"...I can deal with it if you're, uh, restless."

"Fan _tas_ tic, Derek, _thanks_ ," he says ironically. "That makes my inability to focus on anything for more than ten seconds much more bearable. And the feeling that my brain's going to explode from how much information I'm processing every second? Ha!" he says loudly, flailing his hands as if he could wave the feeling away. "Especially because I never remember anything, everything gets lost under the history of circumcision, which I can explain to you in excruciating detail if you're interested, because that's the kind of thing my brain decides to remember."

"Stiles."

"But okay, sure. I'll stop the Adderall," he goes on, more condescending every second, "because you're _benevolent_ enough to accept me just as I am, with my disorder and everything."

"Stiles," he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose with newfound patience, "I was trying to make you feel better."

"I know, Derek," he mumbles, pursing his lips.

"Sit down and let's finish breakfast."

Stiles looks at him, determined to stay angry, because his condition is real and it's hard to live with it, go to class and get along with normal people and act like a human being and not like a chimpanzee on speed. It's a fucking disorder and he doesn't understand why everyone thinks it's so funny. He moves decisively into the living room and looks around for a moment on the bookshelves until he finds a book, which he puts on the kitchen table with a loud thump. _Understanding ADHD_.

"Next time you want to say something nice, I don't know, talk about my bone structure," he says to Derek, sitting down again in front of him.

Derek takes the book and looks at it for a second before putting it down on the counter, next to his leather jacket.

"You react a lot better when I threaten you with death; I think I'll stick to that."

"It's worked well in the past," Stiles acknowledges. "You're going to have to give me more bacon."

"I don't know what I was talking about," Derek jokes, faking a groan. "You're unbearable enough as is."


	4. Snowflake

They say no two snowflakes are the same. It's something Stiles has always heard, although he's not really sure if it's an absolute physical truth or just a cheesy metaphor. He's looked it up, of course, and he's concluded that it _is_ possible for two identical flakes to fall, because nothing's stopping it, really, but it's unlikely. Anyway, no-one will never know because you can't look at every snowflake that falls on Earth.

Basically, Stiles has figured out it's an irrelevant question. It's not something that happens very often, because he always finds interesting things during his research sessions, but he feels really bad for that CalTech student who spent so much time making a website about it. His life must be pretty sad, because snowflakes are the most boring inanimate objects in the world.

So when he tells Scott, "Sure, your love for Allison is a unique, special snowflake," he can't quite manage not to laugh. Derek looks at him and he has to shut his lips tight to stop himself from smiling evilly.

The two of them might not be snowflakes, but he's pretty sure there aren't many relationships like theirs.


	5. Haze

There are a few moments every day, just a few minutes, where Derek lets himself relax. Those minutes between dreaming and waking, where he's not the Alpha or the werewolf pursued by hunters or the troubled boy, and he's just Derek. Stiles leans into his body and makes a noise in his throat and for a moment there's nothing in Derek's mind except the dream-haze and Stiles, and he closes his eyes again to keep up this illusion of peace for a little while longer, just fifteen minutes, an hour, just one day in his whole life where everything could be normal. But reality starts to break through from the back of his mind, like black, infected blood.

"Derek, five minutes more," Stiles asks. "Go back to sleep."

And even though it's all fucked up, Stiles is still there when the mist clears, when the light of reality breaks through, dirty and broken. And somehow he makes it work.


	6. Flame

Stiles knows that it's probably not the most appropriate comparison, but Derek has fire in his eyes. Not just when they're his red Alpha eyes, because he had _that_ before, when they glowed and were as blue as ice. No. There's a flame behind his pupils when Derek's just Derek and looks at him in that way that says "You're mine" without needing words. When he pushes him up against the wall and explores his body with his big hands, rough and possessive, when his tongue pushes between his lips, running over the tips of his teeth one by one as if he were hungry, as if he could devour him right there.

Sometimes Stiles just wants to burn.


	7. Formal

The Beacon Hills Police Gala has been an annual event every year since his father became Sheriff; it's good for the community, and they raise funds for some charity, and it's fun. That last part is a bit more debatable, but it's not like Stiles had a choice anyway.

Then this year his father brings home two tickets.

"You know. One for you, one for your date."

"You mean Derek."

"Yes."

"Derek. My boyfriend."

"Yes, Stiles, your boyfriend."

"I didn't know we were making it official."

"Isn't it official?"

"Well, yeah, but... You know. The gala is a...serious? event," he says, trying to explain it with uncoordinated hand movements. "All of Beacon Hills will be there."

"And that's a problem?"

Stiles would love to say no, but he's not sure. Derek isn't big on taking Stiles out places; they don't go to the movies, they don't go out for dinner, they don't leave the house much. Derek doesn't like to share.

"I'll ask him."

"Do. Each ticket is thirty dollars; I don't want to have bought them for nothing."

—

Stiles parks the Jeep in a space far away from the hotel door, away from the nice cars that make him feel inadequate.

"Shall we go?"

Derek growls, a real growl, as if he could eat someone at any time.

"Oh, my god," he murmurs, swallowing.

"Not now, Stiles," Derek says, wrinkling his nose, probably smelling his arousal in the air. "I can't even breathe in this shit."

"It's the suit, sorry. I didn't know a tie could turn me on so much."

"I can't go in there," he says, sticking his fingers into the stuffy collar of his shirt and separating it from his skin as if it was suffocating him.

"Come on, Derek, don't back out now. My father's got his hopes up, in his own way."

"I'm serious, Stiles. This is the closest I've been to changing involuntarily that I've been in a long time."

"You're just nervous," he says, waving it away, because he's seen Derek about to transform and it was a lot scarier than this. "And it's adorable. Calm down, tonight will be fine. You're not going to grow pointed ears or get claws; you're going to eat a salad and a little bit of steak, you're going to smile at my father with that wonderful fake smile you've got, and then we'll go to your house and I'll let you work out this tension with me. Okay?" he says, fixing Derek's tie and brushing motes of dust off the lapel of his jacket. "Take a few deep breaths; everything will be fine."

"I can't breathe, that just makes it worse," Derek answers. "You have no idea how much this suit stinks. I smell like twenty different people right now."

"I told you to buy one. Who rents a suit? It's gross."

"I don't want to have a suit. I don't want to have to wear one," he complains, and if it hadn't been Derek, Stiles could have sworn he was pouting. "Why can't I just wear jeans and a t-shirt everywhere?"

"I know. It's stupid, but you're really hot," he insists, running his fingers through Derek's hair and trying to calm him a bit. "Really. You're out of this world."

"Stiles."

"Derek, seriously, you're starting to sound like Jackson. Let's go," he says, leaning across the space between the seats to give him one last kiss. Before he can do it, Derek takes him by the shoulders and presses him to his body, sticking his face at the base of his neck and breathing deeply. "Okay. Or you can do that. Whatever you want."

Derek just stays there, breathing heavily against his skin, without giving him any explanation, but when he leans away he seems less tense.

"Okay. Ready," he says a minute later, rearranging his clothes.

"Going out with a werewolf is fun," Stiles says ironically, fixing his tie again, and gets out of the car.

"I needed your smell—"

"Yeah, I got that," he cuts him off. "Sometimes I'd rather not think about how obviously not human you are."

He moves next to him, copying the fast, long steps that bring Derek to the hotel entrance, and gives the invitations to the officer, newly graduated from the academy, who's been assigned to the door.

The gala is just beginning; there are women in evening gowns, canapés and glasses of champagne that Stiles doesn't dare take because he's seventeen and surrounded by agents of the law, but which he'd like Derek to drink and get drunk, even if just a little bit. His calm only lasted a little while.

"Derek, you're okay. Breathe." Stiles notices Derek's fingers on the sleeve of his jacket, playing with the fabric nervously, and little by little they move down to touch his hand, tangling themselves with his. And that's new. He tries not to think too much about how surprised he is that Derek's holding his hand, but it's nice, and it's something he'd like to do again, although maybe not at a police gala with his father thirty feet away looking at them. "Derek?"

Derek doesn't answer, just grabs Stiles's hand tightly with his own and brings it to his nose, breathing against his skin a few times. Stiles looks at him for a long moment, until he decides to return his hand, although he doesn't let go, and turns to look at his father. Who's wearing the stupidest smile that has ever been on his face in his life.

"Great. Now we look like _those people_ ," he says, rolling his eyes. "Don't make me look so gay, Derek, god."

"Don't you dare leave me alone for a second," Derek tells him.

"This is going to be a long night."


	8. Companion

Stiles is a Romantic, always has been. Not a romantic as in writing sonnets and giving flowers and walking in the park holding hands; he's one from the 19th century. A Romantic in the sense that he thinks love is the only thing that matters.

He can remember wanting to get married, like his mother and father, ever since he was little, because he couldn't think of anything that would make him happier. His parents were always happy, never stopped laughing, never, not even one day in their lives, stopped loving each other. That's what Stiles has been looking for since forever. When he was six and started to realize that some day he would be a big person like his father, when he was eight and met Lydia Martin, when he was ten and finally resigned himself to the fact that she'd never pay any attention to him, and during his whole adolescence, — hormonally charged as it was — where he got used to looking at her sideways. His whole life, all Stiles has been looking for is to be in love.

He's eighteen and he knows he's found it. And it's not like he'd imagined, because Derek isn't like his mother or like Lydia, but he loves him so much that sometimes he thinks he could cry. And Stiles doesn't cry often, really he doesn't, but he thinks about Derek and he thinks "always," and something inside him shifts, closes up in his throat and presses on his chest. Sometimes he could swear Derek notices, because he lifts his head and looks at Stiles in a way he can't imagine him looking at anyone else.

Maybe he smells it on him, love. He can tell when Stiles is hungry, or if he's tired or upset or aroused. Maybe he can smell love, too. He never says anything, but he's sure that Derek looks at him more kindly, less seriously, and when they're alone he lets Stiles put his chin on his shoulder and hug him from behind.

He doesn't know if he wants to go to college, if he wants to study video or criminology, or even if he wants pizza or Chinese food for dinner. But he wants to have a family; _that_ he knows. He wants to _be_ a family, he's going to love Derek every day, every night, getting older together and then getting old. And whatever else may happen, for better or for worse, it'll never be too bad if they're together.

If he thinks about it objectively, it scares him. He's only eighteen years old and he's tying himself to a werewolf, a _man_ , an Alpha, and his life will never be normal. He's eighteen years old and his whole life is in front of him, so he can meet people who are less difficult, who he can live a boring life with, work eight to five and weekends in a cabin in the country and cats. With Derek he can never have cats. And he knows that all that should matter to him, should make him rethink things, but it never does. He knows that he wants to spend his whole life with Derek, even if it's in a house filled with Betas, that he doesn't want to meet anyone else because he meets him again every morning, every smile, every time he says his name and makes it sound different. That he's in love.

And then Derek says it, one afternoon while they're out shopping.

"You're the only one," he says, putting a package of steaks in the cart, as if Stiles should know what he's talking about. "There'll never be anyone else."

It's not a promise, it's a confession, and it lifts a weight from his chest that he didn't even know was there.

"Thank god, I thought I was crazy."

Derek looks at him with his jaw tight, tense, as if he wants to say he doesn't understand, but he does. It's the first time he understands completely.

They don't talk about it again, don't need words to explain that, whatever happens, Derek will never love anyone else. That Stiles won't want to.

They don't start picking out dishes or the color of the sofa; they don't pick baby names or open a joint bank account. Stiles puts the shopping in the fridge and goes to Danny's house to finish his Chemistry homework, because for everything else they have the rest of their lives.


	9. Move

It's not one of those mornings where they wake up together and Stiles snuggles into his chest, running lazy fingers over his naked skin, eyes barely open, and it's so easy to touch each other and get under each other's skin that they can't resist it. It's not one of those afternoons where Stiles comes back from lacross training exhausted and sore, smelling like grass and fresh sweat on his skin, pheromones blinding Derek so much that he feels the need to push him up against the door of the bathroom before letting him go take a shower. It's not even one of the pack meeting nights, which Stiles spends throwing him little looks and brushing the back of his neck with the tips of his fingers when he thinks no-one's going to notice, just so Derek will throw him down on the mattress as soon as the others have left by the door.

It's just mid-afternoon on a Sunday.

They haven't done much all day. Stiles shows up in Derek's house in the morning, as soon as his father goes to work; Jackson and Isaac stop by at lunchtime, trying to win the affection of their Alpha with a chicken casserole, and as soon as they leave Stiles puts some coffee on and takes out his school books and puts them on the dining room table. Derek is spending the afternoon updating his finances, like the responsible adult he is, and Stiles tries to finish some English homework and ends up reading about the Boy Scouts on Wikipedia, which is really a lot more interesting than Henry Miller. And it's so domestic that Stiles wants to put on an apron and make homemade lemonade, because he's the kind of person to take these things to their ridiculous conclusions. And then he remembers there's ice cream in the freezer.

"Want some ice cream?" he asks Derek, getting up from his seat and stretching his arms above his head.

"No. Want to fuck?"

And it's so unexpected that Stiles can only give a short bark of laughter.

"Wow, Derek, really?" he exclaims. "Everyone who said passion passed with time, how wrong they were."

"Who says that?" is Derek's answer, putting a few bills on the mountain near the edge of the table.

" _Cosmopolitan_."

"So that's a no," he says lightly, slightly questioning, making it sound like the answer doesn't even interest him.

"It's a yes, of course it's a yes. When have I ever let an opportunity to jump you pass me by? But seriously, man, work on your romance," he reproaches. "Leave that and let's go to your room."

"You work on your spirit of adventure," he says, gesturing for Stiles to come closer.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles wonders, but obeys anyway. Derek carefully clears away a few of the mountains of paper before standing up from his seat and knocking the rest of them off with his hand, making receipts and bank reports fly everywhere, and he looks quite satisfied with himself. Stiles laughs and lets Derek set him on the table. "That was awesome."

"Did you like it?"

"It was great. It was sort of like a potbellied fifty-year-old trying pitifully to seem wild and sexual, you know? But it was funny."

Derek grunts, showing his canines, and steals a lazy kiss.

"I don't want to go up there," he says, pulling Stiles's thighs under his hands and dragging him to the edge of the table."

"So that's what's going on."

"I'm going to do you here, on the table. _That's_ what's going on."

"And are you going to move at all, or am I going to have to do everything? Honestly, Derek," he says, with false disillusionment in his voice. "Sometimes I don't recognize you at all," he jokes, and a ridiculous laugh breaks out of him when Derek pushes him down, his back against the table, and then pulls him up again, leaving him with his ass in the air, forcing him to wrap his legs around Derek's hips in order not to fall. "Fuck."

"You're an idiot," Derek grunts, leaning over him, his face inches away from Stiles's, and somehow he's managed to trap Stiles's wrists and immobilize them with one hand over his head.

Stiles stretches up as much as he can to try to kiss him, knowing beforehand that Derek's going to pull away at the last second because he hates when Stiles tries to do this, tries to take control without Derek letting him. He lets his lips come to rest on Stiles's jaw, drops down to his neck, looking for the perfect place to bite him, lightly, leaving a fine line of red marks down to his collarbone.

Stiles can't stop himself from gasping, and his legs tense around Derek's body, trying to get more contact. Because he's a teenager and has no shame. And Derek's going to make him suffer for it, just to prove he can.

He runs the tip of his tongue around Stiles's collar, leaving wet trails of saliva that cool when he breathes on them and give Stiles goosebumps. He puts his hand under Stiles's shirt and brushes his fingernails along the soft skin between his hips. He brushes his lips against Stiles's, letting his tongue show just a little, teasing, just enough that Stiles will do the same.

"That's not funny," Stiles says, breathing erratically, twisting under him in desperation. He tries to free his hands and Derek lets him, lets him grab the back of his neck and bring their mouths together with too much force, run his hands through Derek's hair and groan against his lips when Derek's tongue looks for his, and press himself against him through the fabric of his jeans.

Stiles pulls Derek towards him from behind with his feet, trying to bring him closer, to have him closer. And every time his erection throbs inside his pants he's closer to losing control, to begging for it. Derek likes when he begs, when he bites his lip and blushes and threatens to kill him if he doesn't do it _now_. But Derek's fingers start circling around the button of his jeans, and that's even better, that feeling that any second now he's going to feel Derek's hand surrounding him, that need that starts at the bottom of his stomach, heavy and hot.

"Fuck," he says, and his hips jerk up until Derek's hand covers him, traces the shape of him through the fabric, and he needs it so much that that's almost enough, the heat from his fingers and the way he pushes his hand, and right then Stiles is _his_. Derek kisses him again, pushing him down against the table until he ends up almost arching over him, even with half his body off the table, his feet balanced precariously on the floor. "I'm going to need to take off my pants any second now," Stiles gasps, taking the bottom of Derek's shirt in his hands, pressing his fingernails into his palms.

Derek smiles, teeth sharp, and Stiles wants to punch that smile away, but he licks his lips and pulls Derek back to him, holding his tongue, anxious and hungry, betwen his lips.

"I don't think that's going to happen. Your pants," he clarifies. "Maybe I'll make you come with them on."


	10. Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't as nice as the rest of the ficlets. It's much longer, too, and it's dealing more with the theme of "werewolves" and the folklore that the fandom has created around the pack.
> 
> I wasn't planning on writing this, but it's what came out. I really would have liked to have been able to spend more time on this, but the challenge is the challenge. One fic a day.

As soon as Stiles answers the phone, Derek knows he's made a mistake. He hears metal cafeteria trays, people eating, irritating teenage voices. It's too loud, and distorted, as if he were far away.

"Derek? Derek!"

"It's nothing," he tries to say, because he's lost count of how many times Stiles has said his name and he hears the worry in his voice. "Forget I called."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. It's nothing. I was trying to call...someone else."

"Who?" he asks.

"The...plumber," Derek whispers.

"My god, Derek, I'm coming over."

"No!" he shouts. "No, Stiles. Everything's fine, we'll talk tomorrow. Don't come here."

But he's talking to a dial tone at the other end of the line and doesn't know if Stiles didn't hear him or didn't want to. He hangs up the phone and tries to lift his head off the floor, because it's starting to feel too heavy. His arms, his legs, everything's too heavy, and it feels like his body wants to sink into the wood. He breathes deeply, feeling the sharp pricking in his lungs, behind his eyes, the metallic taste on his tongue that at least he knows isn't blood, because it's silver.

He knows he should move, that lying there halfway through the door to his house is how the hunters who did this are expecting to find him, but he can't. His muscles aren't responding, feel like jello, and he can't muster the energy necessary to move enough to drag himself somewhere more secure. He's got nowhere to go. He won't be able to drag himself to the forest, where he could keep himself safe. He's undefended. He's going to die because he can't do anything to protect himself, and Stiles is probably on his way, because he's stupid and doesn't think, and if he gets in the hunters' way they're not going to think twice about bringing him along, too.

He would shout if he was strong enough to do it. This is no way to die, he thinks. If he has to die at the hands of hunters who are ignoring the Code, he wants to do it with his fangs dripping their blood, not lying in the door of his house like a lamb for the slaughter. He tries again, moves three fingers on his right hand, manages to lift his wrist despite the pain, despite the needles stabbing into his bones; gritting his teeth, he's able to move his arm a few inches, but then it falls like a dead weight, and Derek can only hope that the hunters get there before Stiles.

"Derek!" he hears someone say, and opens his eyes, which he hadn't even noticed were closed. "God, Derek, what—?" he babbles, kneeling next to him. He feels fingers around his jaw, taking his face in hand and he remembers the last time Stiles saved his life, after Kate shot him, with almost the same posture, the expression on his face totally different. "Don't die. Don't you dare do that to me again. I'm not going to cut off your arm, Derek."

"I'm not dying," he says. It takes him almost everything he's got to say each word.

"What happened?"

"They poisoned me. The water, I think. Silver."

"I thought silver... What do I do? Fuck. Was it the Argents?"

Derek shakes his head slowly.

"They're on their way."

"Oh, my god," Stiles says again, taking his phone out of his pants pocket and typing something quickly. "No, don't close your eyes."

"I'm not going to die, I just... I can't move. They're going to kill me."

"Fuck. Fuck!" Stiles grunts.

"The forest."

"Fuck," he says again, touching Derek's cheek. "Wait just a sec," he says, standing up. He leaves Derek's field of vision and Derek can't follow the sound of his footsteps. They bounce around the whole house, inside his head. He's starting to get cold. "I'm still here."

"You have to go. Before they get here."

"I'm going to put you on this blanket and I'm going to drag you to the forest. It'll be a sight worth seeing," he says, and for some reason he laughs. It doesn't seem like him, it's not his laugh. Derek looks at Stiles and realizes he's terrified.

"You have to go," he says again.

"I'm not going to leave you here, dumbass," he says, kneeling next to him and putting his hands under Derek's back. "Scott's on his way, he's bringing the others. We're going to go to the forest and wait for them."

"Stiles."

"Don't even think about dying," he tells him, before grabbing Derek's shirt and pulling up with it, barely lifting him off the ground. "Fuck. Okay. Breathe, Stiles."

Derek has never felt so powerless in his life, so useless. He can only think about what they're going to do to Stiles when they find him, how he's going to see him die without being able to do anything. He feels a shove and ends up rolling heavily to end up face down on the blue blanket from the sofa.

"I did it. Sweet. Okay. Sorry for how ridiculous this is going to be," Stiles says, standing up from next to him, and Derek starts to feel the ground moving under him. "Everything's going to be fine."

The hall floor changes into cracked floor of the porch, which catches on the blanket and scratches his arms, and then into the gravel of the garden. Every setp they move more slowly, Stiles's breathing gets faster, but he doesn't stop even for a moment, pulls him until they get to the forest, and keeps pulling for what feels like an eternity, until the the tops of the trees are dense above them and the sunlight hardly penetrates.

Derek hears steps coming closer, but they're familiar steps, smells he recognizes.

"Stiles?"

"We're here," Stiles says, and he sounds so relieved that for a moment Derek is, too.

"What happened?" Jackson asks, kneeling next to Derek. He just wants to hide, tell him not to look. He's weak and defenseless as a baby deer and he doesn't need his pack seeing him like this, but he looks at Jackson and there's only worry in his eyes, just a trace of angry tears. "He's going to be okay, right?"

"Yes," Derek assures him. "Help me turn over."

He doesn't want to die face down. He wants to see the faces of his killers while they do it. Jackson turns him much more easily than Stiles had, arranges his clothes around him, picks a few dry leaves out of his hair.

"You need to get Stiles out of here. It's dangerous."

"I'm not going anywhere," Stiles says. Derek hadn't realized he was still there. Stiles sits down next to him and puts a hand over Derek's. "They'll have to tear you out of my cold, dead hands."

"They will," Derek manages, and Stiles's hand tenses around his.

"Let them try."

"Will they really attack all of us?" Isaac asks.

"Derek's out of commission," Lydia says, and Derek is grateful for the way she's describing his situation. "It'll be their only chance to do some damage."

"So?"

"We wait."

The silver is showing no signs of leaving his system. Derek can feel it mixing with his blood, running through his veins like needles, and Stiles doesn't stop telling him that it won't last more than six hours, that the worst is over, that he looked it up online and that he'll start to get his strength back after the third hour. He swears everything's going to be all right. The others stay silent. He feels them around him, a few feet away, forming a circle with him in the center. Their hearts are beating in unison, their breathing is synchronized. The air smells like waiting, wanting to sink claws into something hot.

There's a second where the silence weighs on his stomach, and he notes the rustle of Jackson's feet on the bed of dried leaves before everything explodes. Jackson grunts and brings out his claws, Scott and Lydia come together, without breaking the circle they've created around him, and he only hears the metal of the hunters' weapons when they draw them, and the sound of Allison's bow, shouts, the sound of breaking skin. He tries to raise his head, to see something more than the green of the trees over him, but he has to close his eyes and stop trying to track each sound, to tell if those gasps are from Erica or a hunter, if the smell of blood is Boyd or one of the others. He only knows that Stiles's hand is still on his even though his heart is beating at a thousand beats per minute, that he's all right, that his pack is saving his life while he can't do anything for them.

"Scott!" yells Jackson.

Bullets whistle through the air over his head, and Scott's unmistakable howl makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It's not a howl of pain but of fury, and right afterwards the forest fills with the sound of tearing skin, of someone choking on his own blood, as if the rest of the world had gone quiet. Stiles trembles.

There's not much more after that. Quick steps in the opposite direction, the agitated breathing of the pack, the ugly sound of bones returning to their places, fingernails retracting, fangs retreating into gums.

"Is that it?" Stiles asks.

No-one answers for a moment, as if they were waiting for the hunters to return, as if they didn't trust the sudden calm.

"Give me that," says Erica, and Derek hears the sound of a gun being pulled from his fingers, and he hates himself for having put him in that position, for having put their lives in danger this way, for not having been there fighting them. An Alpha shouldn't lie on the ground waiting for the fight to end. He should have been in the front rank, protecting his pack and his companion. His family.

"Are you okay? Is everyone okay?" he asks in a whisper, and Stiles lets himself lean on him.

"Yes. It doesn't look like... They're going to be fine," he assures him, with his forehead on Derek's chest, but he could swear he was lying.

"What happened?"

"Lydia has an ugly cut on her back, but it'll heal," he starts to say, running his hand over Derek's chest. The hand that had been holding a gun that he wouldn't have hesitated a second to use. "They shot Isaac in the gut, but it was a normal bullet. Boyd's taking it out. Everyone else is fine. Allison's fine. Scott...Scott protected her. Scott..."

It's then that he hears his howl, and this time it resounds through the whole forest, the echo rustling through the tops of the trees.

"Scott killed a hunter. The rest ran."

"I know," he whispers, closing his eyes. He doesn't ask if Scott's all right because he knows he's not. He hears Allison trying to get him to come back, asking him to listen to her voice, to turn back, but Scott just comes to Derek, lies down next to him, growling, pressing his face to Derek's neck. Derek notices Stiles running a hand through Scott's hair, calming him down the way Derek would have, and Scott starts to sob. "I'm sorry," says Derek.

"He was going to kill you," he says. "He was going to kill my Alpha, my girlfriend, my best friend," he grunts. "He had a machete, he was going to cut you in half."

"You did what you had to do," says Jackson, suddenly there next to them, and he lies down, too, wrapping an arm around Derek's torso and his legs between Scott's.

"They'll be back," says Erica.

"Not now. Not for a long time," Lydia says, squeezing in next to Jackson. "They lost their leader and they know we're stronger than they were expecting."

Derek opens his mouth and breathes deep, letting his lungs fill with the smell of his pack, these brave, smart teenagers who just risked their lives for him, for the dysfunctional family he's created. Little by little they all end up in a pile of bodies, tangled and touching each other just to convince themselves that they're all still there, still alive. And somehow they all touch him, as if they could make him stronger. Not even Stiles says anything, and he's always found these rituals a bit too animalistic for his taste. He leans on Derek and lets Erica hug him from behind and Isaac put his head on his legs.

It gets dark before any of them move. Phones start to ring, asking if they're going to come home for dinner, if they have any explanation for the principal calling to say they skipped three classes. When Derek's arm muscles start to work almost normally, only Jackson, Scott, and Stiles are still there. Jackson has been asleep for a bit, snoring against Derek's abdomen. Scott, on the other hand, is still painfully awake. Even his face is covered with blood. Stiles hasn't taken his hand off of his head and isn't asleep either. He hasn't turned his gaze away from Derek even for a second.

Derek lifts his hand, shaking, still too heavy, and puts it on Stiles's.

"Everything's going to be okay."


	11. Prepared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And I'm only posting this in order not to lose my 11-day streak, because I'm not very happy with it."

They started going out on a Tuesday. Well, they didn't go _out_ , have dates. Actually they started staying home on a Tuesday. After the first kisses, shy and slow, it didn't take long for things to heat up, turn into hours of touching each other through clothes, lying on the couch and on the floor and pressing against doors. On Sunday, Stiles was ready to take the next step. Maybe it was too fast, going from the plate to first base, running by second and ending at third and home in one quick go. Home run. And maybe he was going too far with the baseball metaphor, but definitely he was ready for sex. He was _so_ ready.

Stiles was sixteen years old and felt like he was at the peak of his sexual maturity. And every time Derek bit his earlobe it turned him on so much that it was becoming unbearable _not_ to have done with it. So that Sunday, while the Sheriff was working, as they were rolling around on his bed, Stiles dared to put his hands under Derek's shirt and lift it, to bring his lips closer to Derek's hip, to run his fingers over Derek's warm skin down to the button of his jeans.

"Stiles."

"Yes?" he said, not letting that distract him, because Derek had sounded comfortable enough that it could be just a gasp, a "Stiles, don't stop."

"Stop."

"What?"

"Not— For a second," he clarified, sitting up and letting Stiles fall back at his side, turned off and confused. He lowered his shirt modestly, tugging on the bottom as if there wasn't enough fabric, as if he wanted to cover himself completely and disappear. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I can't do this."

"Why? What did I do? Did I do something wrong?" he asked nervously. "I mean...it's not as if I've done it before, but...I haven't done anything, I mean. I learn fast, Derek. Tell me what you want me to do."

"Stiles, stop. You didn't do anything."

"That's what I'm trying to say," he babbled.

"No, it's not that. I don't want you to do anything."

"What?"

"Nothing you don't want to do. I don't want you to do anything before you're—"

It would be adorable how uncomfortable Derek was feeling if it weren't because he was utterly rejecting Stiles's sexual advances.

"I'm not rushing, I promise you. I am so ready for this, Derek. _So ready_ ," he insisted. "You've got no idea."

"It's too soon."

"I know, but... I know you're not taking advantage of me, obviously. And I'm not going to take advantage of you. Have we met? I'm Stiles, I cannot tell a lie."

"Stiles—"

"I like you a lot, Derek. I have for a long time, and I've thought about this so many times; you wouldn't believe it. I'm so ready, fuck," he said again, and it made him sound like he was begging.

"I'm not sure if _I_ am," Derek said in a whisper.

"What?" Stiles asked, although he was pretty sure he'd heard him correctly.

"I should go."

"No. No, no, no, don't do that thing where you leave when things get serious," Stiles said, threatening him with a finger, because he was already on his feet and halfway to the window. "Tell me what's going on. Oh, my god. You don't think I'm attractive, do you? I knew it, I always knew it."

Derek interrupted him. "Stiles."

"Tell me what's going on."

"Do we really need to talk about this?"

"We're...together, aren't we? Something like that. People talk about stuff like this."

"Oh, fuck," Derek said, snorting, and sat down on the edge of the bed without daring to look at him, the Alpha suddenly scared and nervous, and Stiles couldn't hold back his desire to hug him, to lean his chin on Derek's shoulder and circle his enormous back with his skinny arms and as much strength as he had. "I was your age the last time I did this," he said finally, apparently more comfortable talking to Stiles if he couldn't look at him, "and it was a bad idea. She was much older than I was, and she... She wasn't a good person. I wasn't ready, I wasn't mature enough, and... It was the worst decision of my life."

"The last time?" Derek nodded slowly. "But. That was..." He had to stop himself in order to subtract.

"Six years."

"There hasn't been anybody—?"

"No," Derek cut him off.

"In six years," he said, and Derek shook his head as if he was ashamed. "I thought you... I don't know."

"You're the first one in all this time," he started to say, and the words seemed to stick in his throat, but Stiles understood at "first" anyway.

"It's okay. I can wait," he assured him, squeezing his back with his fingers, and he hoped Derek would believe him, would be convinced that he could trust him, that he'd never hurt him. "I can wait forever, Derek. I've spent sixteen years waiting, I can wait a month, five, a year, as much time as you need."

Derek breathed deeply and ran a hand through Stiles's short hair, turning around to look at him.

"I'll explain everything, someday."

"I can wait for that until you're ready, too," Stiles answered. "I haven't hugged you yet, don't try to leave," he said, pulling him close again, letting his lips come to rest at Derek's neck, and he breathed against Derek's skin until he relaxed, slowly, in Stiles's arms. "You know? I'm happy you're going to be my first," he murmured, and there were so many things he wanted to tell Derek that he didn't know where to begin.


	12. Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, I missed a day. In my defense I'll say it was the end of term celebration, and I was in no condition to write anything yesterday. I think not today either, seeing how shitty this drabble is. BUT WHATEVER."

Stiles thinks that, in the world we live in, true knowledge isn't knowing things, but knowing where to find them. And that's what he does well.

Stiles can already sort out deceptive results about werewolves in a Google search, and he can find the information he needs in the first two pages, using careful search-words. And he's gotten so good at it that he doesn't just search for the pack. He's found out that if he digs around on Facebook he can find out some embarrassing detail about any player on their rival lacrosse teams that Jackson can whisper at them before tackling like a rhinoceros. Finstock decided that if he didn't know what they were doing he couldn't blame them, and he's never told them to stop doing it.

The best part is that after hours of searching he ends up _remembering_ things. The worst part is that they're stupid things. That third children of a werewolf couple have a better chance of being human than their siblings, for example, or that the goalie they're facing next week has a third nipple.

There are a lot of things about Derek that he doesn't know, but he knows where to look for them. And not just in the police archive and the library; most of the time, on Derek's face. In the way his eyebrows come together when something bothers him, or the way he half-smiles, as if he doesn't quite want to do it, when Stiles's normally irritating babbling amuses him. The gleam in his eyes when he can take pride in his companion in front of the rest of the pack, and it makes Stiles's breath catch.

There are things even Stiles doesn't know. How proud his perseverence, his bravery, his generosity make Derek, how happy his days have become with Stiles next to him, how much he hates every joke Stiles makes about his supposed fragility as a human being. He doesn't know them yet, but if he sees them enough he'll end up learning them, believing them. Realizing how utterly in love Derek is.


	13. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This chapter deals fairly seriously with the topic of Stiles's mother's death. So be careful if this isn't the sort of thing you want to read."

Stiles doesn't remember his mother healthy, really. All his memories are of his mother sick, convalescing, getting better, sick again; but even so she had more life than anyone Stiles has ever known.

She was fun, she was funny the way only teenage boys are funny, with a bit of evil and a bit of innocence. And she laughed a lot, up until the last few months when she wasn't strong enough to laugh. Stiles doesn't have any real memories of her being healthy, only fake ones that have planted themselves in his brain because she told the stories so many times. The trip to the beach when he was a year old where he learned to walk at the edge of the ocean. The little piano that his grandparents gave him that he spent a whole summer playing until, thank god, it broke. The nights where all three of them slept in the same bed because Stiles was afraid of the monsters in his closet.

There were days, sometimes whole weeks, where chemotherapy stole the color from her cheeks and her desire to get out of bed, but even so she did it. She got up and made Stiles breakfast and saved him lunch in a bag so he could bring it to school, and before he went out the door she'd kiss his forehead. The Sheriff would sometimes get mad at her, and when he thought Stiles couldn't hear them he'd tell her to stay in bed, because every time she got up, even if it was only to make toast, she got so tired. "Wait until this treatment is finished, wait until you're stronger," he told her, day after day, and she answered him, her voice serene and controlled, "I don't know how many breakfasts I have left." From his room, Stiles could practically hear the way his father's heart broke, the way his world was crumbling. On the bus, on the way to school, he'd pretend to be sleeping so he wouldn't have to hold back the tears he couldn't cry at home.

She died when Stiles was thirteen and a half. One night the sound of cars and the light from ambulances in the street woke him up, and when he went out into the hall his father looked at him, opened his mouth and only had to say "son" for him to know. His mother was sick, she had been for almost five years, and that night she just stopped being.

He doesn't remember much about the funeral, other than the way he stuck to his father's side, and the strange feeling that his mother wasn't there, in that box on the altar. In the wooden box that they put in the ground later and covered with earth. That wasn't his mother.

The next few months were hard for both of them, because they'd never been alone, and suddenly they had to learn to take care of each other, to do those little things his mother had done, like make each other laugh and remember when they had to wash the sheets and when parent conferences at school were. The Sheriff sometimes brought him to the cemetery and told that piece of stone the news. That Stiles had joined the lacrosse team, that he'd rescued the Jeep from the garage and was trying to repair it, that the Phillies had won the World Series and the Mets' season had been disappointing. Stiles didn't usually talk.

He talked at home, while his father was out. She was still in the house, in the coffee stain on the couch, in the magnets she'd put on the refrigerator and the dent she'd made in the wall with her shoe while trying to kill a moth. She was there in the notes written in the margins of cookbooks and in the door she'd always complained about still creaked, so he talked to her. He told her that there were times where it was so hard not to have her there that he forgot how to breathe, where he thought he was going to die, too.

His father found him once, while Stiles was doing his math homework and remembering how she would still count on her fingers behind her back so that Stiles wouldn't see. The Sheriff went pale, looking around.

"Stiles, who are you talking to?" he asked, coming closer to him, fear clenching in his stomach.

"Mom."

"Son," he said, and for the first time Stiles thought what he was doing was something bad, that it wasn't normal, and the way it hit him made him want to cry.

"I know she's not here, Dad," he said. His voice was changing and it sounded harder than he'd wanted, but somehow it was fine, he realized he was angry and he'd been angry for a long time. "I'm not crazy, I'm not in denial," he said, and his father looked at him in confusion. "I know Mom's dead, but if you can talk to a piece of rock I can talk with my math textbook."

And he didn't stop doing it, but never aloud again. His father stopped looking at him as if he was about to break, and with time Stiles convinced himself that he wasn't going to. That he was going to be all right.

It's the first anniversary of his mother's death since he's been with Derek, and somehow Derek knows. He spends the whole morning tiptoeing around Stiles, as if he's expecting him to explode at any time. Stiles just gets up and goes downstairs to make breakfast for the pack like every Sunday, and Derek sits down nearby with a coffee and watches him like he usually does, because Stiles isn't going to put anyone's life in danger by having Derek help him. He has on that face that tries to look understanding, but really just screams _I don't know how to deal with this kind of thing, Stiles, help me_ , and Stiles would like to be able to ignore it, but suddenly sadness is all around him, catching in his legs and then in his lungs.

"She was good at waffles. She always burned pancakes."

"Do you want me to call the others and tell them not to come?" Derek offers, stretching out a hand that Stiles doesn't take.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"You know? When she made me lunch for school, she'd always leave me a note at the bottom of the bag. Something that said, 'Don't eat with your mouth open,' or, 'Tie your shoes,'" Stiles says, and he smiles as he remembers. "And I always had my shoes untied and chewed with my mouth open."

"And you still do," Derek says.

"She knew me so well that she always knew what to put on the note so that it would be true. And I was convinced she had some kind of ninja superpower and was watching me, and I was less scared to go to class, even though the other kids made fun of me, because I thought she was there."

Stiles shakes his head and manages a sad laugh before turning back to the first pancake.

"She seems like an interesting woman," Derek says hesitantly.

"She would have liked you. I haven't talked to her about you, now that I think about it. Although I guess she already knows, if she's looking at me from her ninja hiding place. I haven't talked to her in a long time."

"Do you want to go to the cemetery?" Derek asks, getting up suddenly. "I'm going to call the others to cancel."

"I want to go home," Stiles whispers, taking the frying pan off the fire.

"Oh. Of course."

"Can you come with me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's note: it's my turn to apologize for the delays — I've been traveling and didn't have internet access on Sunday or Monday. Should resume a more regular schedule now.


	14. Wind

Derek is more wolf than man on windy days, those days when the air whistles through the trees like the sound of a wild animal. It gets in his head and drives him crazy, and the only way to bear it is to change into his Alpha form and run through the woods, letting the run through his fur and fill it with dry leaves and dust.

Stiles thinks it's funny. Or not funny, exactly; interesting in a way that makes him smile. He tells Derek about the dog his aunt and uncle have that's afraid of wind and storms and vacuum cleaners.

"Are you afraid of the vacuum cleaner?" he asks, teasing, because the joke hasn't gotten old yet, apparently.

"No, Stiles."

"Is that why your house is so dusty?"

"I'm not a Cocker Spaniel," Derek says, wishing he could get mad at him. "I don't like wind; that's all."

"And how do you feel about laser pointers?" Stiles says, biting back a laugh.

"That's cats," Derek says, a grimace of confusion on his face. "Nothing you're saying makes any sense."

"It's a legitimate question; laser pointers drive me crazy."

It was a windy day when Kate set fire to his house. The flames started roaring right away, burning the wooden structure and the roof and the white wooden façade. Toxic smoke filled the house before the flames got to all the rooms, and some were lucky and died before they realized what was happening.

There was a lot of wind, and the smell of the fire got to the school before the police.

"Do you know what my uncle's dog does when there's wind?" Stiles asks, insistent.

"I think you're going to tell me anyway," Derek sighs, resigned.

"He lies down on the couch and puts his head on my aunt's lap so she can scratch his ears." He smiles and raises his eyebrows. "You know, in case you get tired of running someday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's note: sorry for the delay again! We had some technical difficulties. It has come to my attention that I've neglected to note that the wonderful tuai and [Tequila_Mockinbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tequila_Mockingbird) have both been generously helping me as betas.


	15. Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This came out really long for some reason. It's writing in the woods — something comes over me."

Derek plans pack training as if it were a military drill, as if they were Marines. Maneuvers in the woods, strategy, history classes to learn about potential enemies... Really, the others would describe it as playing _Call of Duty_ , listening to Hale family anecdotes, and playing the most violent game of hide-and-seek in the world, but Derek knows what he's doing.

From the beginning, Erica and Isaac accepted the draining practice sessions, which always ended with a broken bone somewhere, in good faith, and Boyd didn't usually argue much, either, although he was always a little less complacent. The problem was Lydia and Scott; Lydia because she'd always thought of herself as too good to need practice (and maybe she did have a natural talent for things, but Derek wasn't going to be the one to tell her so), and Scott because after all this time he still wasn't very comfortable with being a werewolf. So Derek had to get creative. The idea came to him one afternoon while he was watching Jackson grumble every time Scott did one push-up more than him. Jackson, body covered in sweat, his heart racing and muscles burning with the effort, would do two more.

Derek figured out that the only way to make it work was to exploit their competitiveness.

That night, he splits them into groups so they can face off against each other. The first team, led by Scott, has on its side Isaac's intuition, Jackson's determination, and Allison's cleverness. The other, under Lydia's iron fist, Boyd's coldness, Erica's fury, and—

"Go on without me!" Stiles calls, supporting himself with his hands on his knees, while the rest of his team keeps running a few meters ahead of him.

"Move your pasty little girl butt over here, Stilinski," Lydia tells him, turning briefly to look at him, her red hair hanging suspended around her for a moment. "If I have to come back for you one more time I'm going to hurt you so bad that you're going to have to call the funeral home."

"Derek, please," Stiles begs, looking around for him in the trees. And if he'd paid attention to the advice Derek gave him that one afternoon to make use of his human senses, instead of identifying animal droppings in the woods, he would have found him barely fifteen feet away from where he was gasping, exhausted. "Can we pretend they've already captured me? Becuase I told my father we'd watch the _Seinfeld_ marathon today—"

"No-one's going to leave here until you catch someone," Derek says, without emerging from the trees. Stiles looks all around for him, perfectly useless. He doesn't even know how to use his ears.

"I'm a human being, Derek. If I want to 'catch something' I go to the supermarket for it."

The Alpha decides that doesn't need an answer and concentrates on the sound of struggle less than half a mile away.

"Jackson and Isaac just captured one of your teammates," Derek tells him.

"Can we assume that the team I'm on will always be the losing one? Because this is starting to get ridiculous. I'm not Jason Bourne, Derek," he complains. "I'm the _other_ guy, the one who stays in the van with the headphones and the computers and all the CIA machines and tells Bourne what to do. Can't I be that guy?"

"No," Derek says shortly, bracing for impact.

"Come on, fu—OUCH!" he shouts, when Scott lands on him, jumping expertly from behind a bush, knocking him on his back on the ground. "What are you doing!?"

"Two-nothing, slowpoke."

"Two-one," Derek corrects him. "Boyd just captured Allison."

It doesn't take anything else for Scott to jump up and run off on all fours between the trees, following his scent. And maybe Derek smiles proudly, because Scott gets better every day.

Stiles gets up, rubbing his head with his hand and making sure he's not hurt. The hit was controlled, Scott was careful, and Stiles knows he didn't do him any harm, but Stiles likes complaining too much.

"I'm going home."

"You're not going anywhere."

"I'm sick of this shit," Stiles says, brushing dirt off his pants.

"Stiles," Derek says, coming out of the shadows in two steps and putting a hand on his shoulder. "If this had been real you'd be dead now. You didn't even hear him coming."

"We're just playing tag."

"We're playing _survive_ if you run into a hunter, or some creature—"

Stiles pulls away from him violently, shoving his hand away.

"I wouldn't have to run into anything if you weren't a fucking—" He doesn't need to finish the sentence, because the damage is already done. Derek knows it's not what he really thinks, that Stiles might be the only person who hasn't thought of him as a _monster_ even for a second, but that doesn't make the words feel any less like a punch to the gut, making him hunch over.

"I'm just human," he says, barely in a whisper, scared and repentant, although he's too proud to say he's sorry. "I'm trying, I swear I'm trying, but I'm not fast and I'm not strong and... The only thing I do is put us all in danger."

"You're smart."

"I'm funny, too, but that doesn't make me bulletproof," Stiles says.

"You're not as funny as you think you are," Derek answers, and turns in time to hear Scott's howl of triumph. "You lost again."

He moves into the clearing where they usually start their maneuvers and waits for the rest of the pack to arrive. Stiles stands next to him, but a few feet away, and Derek senses so many feelings coming from him that he can't process them all. He's upset and he's ashamed, and scared above all. Derek has to make an effort not to look at him. Instead he fixes his gaze on the rest of the pack as they appear from among the woods, Scott in the lead. All of them have cuts and scrapes that are healing quickly, and all of them are covered in blood and wet earth, and Lydia is furious.

"Another time, Derek," she orders him, as if she had the right to do so.

He nods.

"We're going to change groups. On the first team will be Stiles. On the second, everyone else."

"What?" Stiles yelps, looking at Derek like he's just betrayed him.

"You've got five minutes head start. Survive."

"Derek!"

"Time's ticking."

"Fuck!" Stiles protests, running into the woods.

The first round doesn't even last twenty seconds. Erica and Jackson corral him and Lydia cuts him in half, figuratively. The second isn't much better, or the third, or the fourth, where he climbs a tree and Allison kills him with one of her toy arrows.

"I'm done!" he yells, and Derek can tell how frustrated he is, almost on the verge of tears, and how upset he is with him and with the rest of the pack. "I'm going home."

"You're not going anywhere," Derek tells him, grabbing his arm. "Again. Five minutes head start."

"Derek, I've died a billion times already today; is that what you want? For me to realize how useless I am? I know already. Now I'll listen to you when you tell me not to leave the house, not to go into the woods, to be careful. Okay?"

"You won't," Derek says. "And you're not useless, because you're the person I chose, the person the wolf chose," he says, touching his chest just above his heart. "You can't be a useless person who'll die in the first rounds fired, unable to protect himself and the rest of my pack. That would mean I'm a bad Alpha, that my instinct failed and that I'm going to be a widower really soon. You're not useless, Stiles. You're smarter than any of these numbskulls," he assures him, and pushes him towards the woods. "Now you've got four minutes."

Stiles looks at him one last time and breathes out heavily, trotting into the trees again. This time he manages to kill Boyd and get Jackson on the head with the branch of a tree before Scott's claws come out.

"Ha!" Stiles says, jumping excitedly when he gets to the clearing again, and Derek can't keep himself from half-smiling.

"You're still dead."

"You're _so_ dead," Jackson threatens, feeling his forehead where Stiles hit him.

"You're going to have to do better than that if you want us to get out of here tonight," Derek continues, and he waits for the rest of them to groan hopelessly, because they've been training for hours and must be exhausted, but no-one opens their mouth. "Again."

As in all the other rounds, Derek follows him when he gets between the trees, watching his movement. This time it seems like Stiles has given himself up for lost, because he makes a lot more noise than normal and leaves too many signs on the ground; he'll be easy to follow. It's not until he sees him rubbing himself aginast trees that Derek realizes what he's doing. He comes to one part of the forest, a little hollow in the foliage where there's a tree decomposing, and retraces his steps carefully, coming back there a minute later from another path, probably marked just the same with his smell and tracks. He repeats this a few times, quickly and from various different entrances to the clearing. Stiles looks at his watch then and looks around, finally deciding on the tree trunk and hiding himself in a gap in the moss.

It's not the most innovative strategy, but it is a strategy, and at least he's guaranteed himself the chance to attack them all at once. It's risky and in real life it would only guarantee a bloodbath, but his wolves are young and maybe they'll fall into the trap.

He hears them start out, their light footsteps rustling on the wet ground, their hushed whispers giving them away. Stiles isn't moving but Derek can still hear his breathing and his heart racing, although he's always been able to hear Stiles more clearly than anyone else.

Scott suggests that they split up to follow the trails, and that's what they do. Derek feels the whole forest around him moving cautiously. Allison and Scott to the north, Jackson and Erica to the west. Isaac and Boyd are coming up from the east, while Lydia has decided to go it alone on the path from the south. She's the first to die. Stiles barely has to stick his hand out from the moss covering and point at her with the laser pointer, which hits her in the middle of the forehead.

"Bam. Wolfsbane bullet," he whispers, hiding again.

"Shit," she mutters, lying down on the ground as the rules command and putting her arms behind her head as if she were sunbathing.

Isaac gets there just after, with Boyd covering him from behind.

"Lydia's here already," Isaac says, looking around for any trace of Stiles.

"What happened?"

"I'm dead, I can't tell you," she says, her mouth twisting. The two of them turn around each other, trying to cover all the angles, and Derek's stomach clenches in anticipation as they come to the worn trunk, almost tripping over it.

"His trail is everywhere."

Stiles jumps out, not very dextrously, landing on Boyd's back and pointing the laser at Isaac.

"Dead," he grunts, and stabbing Boyd in the neck with what should have been a dagger but is really just air. Boyd laughs and falls down dramatically, dragging Stiles with him and landing on top of him. "Bastard. Serious wound, wait here a second" — he coughs and stands up to deal with Allison, who's just appeared with her bow drawn. Stiles dodges the first rubber arrow, but the second hits his laser arm, making it useless. He hits the ground, pressing against the fallen tree and stabbing Boyd again. "Now you're super-dead, okay?" he says, then brings his head up carefully.

From where Derek is supervising the exercise he can hear Erica and Jackson closing in from behind Stiles, aware of the strategy and using it to their advantage, circling around him. Stiles is too busy trying to find a way to get around Scott, who's going to attack him from the front, and he doesn't even realize that there are still two wolves he hasn't accounted for.

He switches the laser to his other hand and uses a gap in the wood of the try to point it at Allison with his left hand.

"Wounded, Ally," he says, and raises his head to look at Scott, who's growling deep in his throat. Erica and Jackson are closing in, hardly making any noise, and they're just seconds away from jumping Stiles when he jumps on the tree trunk and comes face to face with his best friend.

"You're out of bullets," Lydia says, looking at him superiorly.

"Give me a break," he yells, "firing" the laser in Scott's general direction.

"That was useful," Scott says when he lands next to him, and Stiles takes a few steps back, his heart racing faster with each one. Scott tenses, and Derek know's he's sensed the other two nearby, that he knows they're on the verge of jumping on the human. But he doesn't want Erica and Jackson to be the ones who carry them to victory, and he charges at Stiles, scratching the earth with his claws.

Stiles doesn't move for a long moment, looking at his friend, and a small smile forms on his face. He waits, and waits, and when Scott is practically on top of him, with his hands reached out to grap him, he drops to the ground and lets Scott fly over him to crash into the trees behind him with a groan.

"I can't believe that worked," he says, turning to make sure Scott's all right. Erica's eyes glint amber in the shadows in front of him. "Shit." And she starts to run towards Stiles, looking hungry.

Derek's there before he realizes it, pushing Stiles away and putting himself between him and the Beta, taking her by the fringe of her jacket and lifting her effortlessly off the ground. He turns violently and throws Erica through the air into Jackson, who has just emerged from the brush and is trying to surprise them. Both of them fall, groaning in pain, but they're up again a second later, brushing dust off their clothes. Erica smiles, showing her sharp teeth, and brushes her hair away from her face. Jackson grunts, and his face reads like a book. They're two well-trained Betas against an Alpha and a weak, fragile human, and they're perfectly capable of beating them. It was never a game for Jackson.

Stiles picks up a long, dry branch from the ground and hefts it, coming to cover Derek's back.

"This wasn't the plan," Jackson says, moving in slowly.

"I never said what team I was on," Derek jokes, and jumps towards him, showing his fangs. He lands on Jackson and gets a scratch on his cheek before sinking his claws into Jackson's shoulder. Jackson bites his neck and twists to get on top of him, but Derek uses his superior strength and gets back on top with just a quick shove. He takes Jackson by the shoulders and knocks him hard against the ground until he turns and submits.

He looks up and looks for Stiles, who's sitting straddling Erica, pressing the branch hard against her throat.

"I'm sorry I hit you," he babbles, scared but still holding her neck down. "I owed it to you."

She smiles and stops trying to free herself, raising her arms to give up. Stiles hesitates for a moment before getting up, as if he didn't trust her, but finally he drops the stick and rubs his hands on the leg of his jeans. He looks around at all the werewolves lying on the ground, and Derek smells the heat coming off him.

"So I won?" he says quietly.

"Yes," Derek answers, offering a hand to Jackson to help him up.

"But I wanted to win by myself."

Isaac laughs, getting up and helping Lydia to do the same. The rest of the pack stands in a circle around them, staring at them. Derek knows Stiles can't tell, but all of their heartbeats and breathing are coming into sync. The pack is a unit again.

"You'll never be alone," Derek says, putting his arm around Stiles's shoulders. "Let's go home, I ordered pizza."

"When?"

"After they killed you the tenth time. It should be almost here."

Stiles smiles and leans against Derek's chest.

"This was okay."

They lead the way back to the house, slowly but surely. The aggression and anger are gone, leaving behind a relaxed, calm, lazy feeling. Erica laughs with Lydia, Scott and Jackson are teasing each other. Derek thinks he can wait for tomorrow to tell Stiles why his strategy would never have worked in a real battle.

"You should celebrate your victory."

"I'm not going to howl, Derek," he says. "You'll all make fun of me later."

So Derek does it for him, and the whole forest goes quiet before its Alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's note: sorry for the delay again! I'm just going to not promise anything in future re release schedules for new chapters.


	16. Thanks

Stiles is a polite, friendly person, but only to strangers. He holds the door for the person behind him when going into the cafeteria at school, apologizes when he bumps into someone in the street (even when it isn't his fault), obsessively thanks the cashier at the supermarket and waiters in restaurants and gas station workers. That's what he's been taught ever since he was young. To be polite, to respect people who are different from him, and to treat women like the magical creatures they are. Stiles follows these three rules to the letter, and sometimes he wonders if this is the reason he has so little success in his social interactions, because he seems to be the only one in the world who does.

He's polite with strangers, but with the people he's close to, with the ones he _should_ be polite to because they actually matter, he seems to forget. He can't remember the last time he thanked his father, or if he's ever apologized to Scott in the last few years for hitting him on the head with his lacrosse stick. For that matter, last time he hit him it came with a "watch where you're going, Lassie," even though Scott had barely moved. But that's trust, that's love. Stiles shows his father and Scott that he's grateful in other ways, and saying "thanks a lot" every time they pass the salt at dinner isn't necessary.

And then he thinks about Derek, when he still didn't know him. How his normal tendency to compensate for his annoyingness with niceness as soon as he says three sarcastic words never made an appearance. Maybe because from the first moment something in his head rearranged itself when he saw Derek, maybe he knew that Derek was never going to need his _thanks_ or _sorry_ or _please_. Derek was going to need him to be ready to cut off an arm, to keep him afloat in a pool for hours, to come to his house the morning after a full moon and make him a bowl of cereal.

Because friendliness is for strangers; he'll keep his snarky commentary and bad jokes for the people who really matter.


	17. Look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rereading is for the weak."

"You guys are really boring."

Stiles opens his mouth wide and looks at Scott as if he'd just said the worst thing in the world.

"We are _not_!"

"You're like an old couple who've been married for fifty years."

"What? No!" Stiles says, punching Scott's shoulder. "We just have a stable, mature relationship based on trust and mutual respect—"

"Boring," Scott cuts him off. "Allison and I—"

"Ah, okay, I know what this is about."

"Allison and I," Scott says, emphasizing his words as if that would make them more interesting to Stiles, "go to the movies, or bowling, and we had dinner at that expensive new restaurant they opened."

"You know I can't manage two hours sitting in a movie theater even on a good day," Stiles responds. "And I'm still paying for the last time I had the Jeep repaired; I can't afford much more than greasy pizza in a cardboard box."

"Derek has money. He should ask, anyway."

"Why? I'm not a girl. And, even if I were, I don't support perpetuating traditional gender—"

"Stiles," Scott interrupts him again. "You are a boring couple."

They're not. So what if they don't go out for dinner or have dates? Stiles has never believed in dates, in dressing up specially to go to some special place and do things they'd never do in normal circumstances. Stiles doesn't eat dinner at expensive restaurants and let people pay for him. He doesn't put on a blazer to go to dinner, he puts it on to go to the forest, because that's the kind of person he is, and that's the kind of person Derek's in love with. Stiles is weird and inappropriate and he hasn't been boring for a _second_ in his whole life, so it's impossible that he and Derek are a boring couple.

He tells Derek one afternoon, while Derek's reading advertisements in the newspaper, looking for secondhand furniture to restore, because that's what he does now. Stiles looks up from the computer and says, without preamble, "Scott thinks we're boring."

"Hm," Derek murmurs, and circles an ad with a red pen.

"Do you think we are?"

"Do _you_ think we are?" Derek responds.

"No. I mean—" He opens his mouth and closes it again, waving his hands. "We aren't, right?"

"Well, maybe it's not as _exciting_ as it was at the beginning—"

"Oh, my god."

"—but with time all relationships settle down and become more routine," Derek says, not bothered at all.

"It's not routine. It can't be routine when every two months some mythical creature comes and wants to eat my face, or hunters coming to put a bullet in your chest, or—"

"Maybe we're too comfortable," Derek suggests, shrugging lightly. And Stiles wishes he would show a bit more interest.

"Could you at least _pretend_ to care about this relationship crisis?"

Derek sighs and puts the newspaper down on the table.

"This isn't a crisis, this is you being ridiculous. What do you want?"

"Allison and Scott go out to dinner."

"Yeah. I don't particularly care about food," Derek answers, and Stiles looks at him in exasperation.

"I know that. I don't understand it. Sometimes you're so inhuman."

"If you want us to go out somewhere, just say the word. I've got a white shirt around somewhere; I can pick you up at your house, do all the stupid little things you do on dates."

"You sound absolutely overjoyed at the idea."

"Seriously, Stiles. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it."

They make reservations for Friday at the restaurant Scott talked about, and Derek picks him up in the Camaro with his perfectly-pressed white shirt. Stiles feels stupid, but that's part of the whole having a date thing, and it's new, and...not exactly exciting. But new.

The maître d' brings them to a table at the back, which Stiles isn't sure is a good thing because it's too close to the bathrooms, but it's where they're seating all the young couples, so it seems to be restaurant policy. Keep the young people away from the normal people.

Stiles glances at the menu as if he understood half the things on it, and decides on duck because it's basically chicken and doesn't scare him too much. Derek orders lasagna because it has the perfect balance of protein, fat, and carbohydrates and it's healthy, which is fine with Stiles, because at least it's a change from his normal diet of steak and rice.

"So..." Stiles says, drumming his fingers on the table. "How are things?"

"Good. You?"

"Good," he answers. He scratches his head and drinks from his glass of water. "So, we're up to date."

"We saw each other this morning and talked on the phone when you left school, Stiles," Derek says calmly. "Not _that_ many interesting things happen in my life."

"And there's a limit on the number of words you can say every day if you want to keep being a member of the International Mystery Wolf Club."

"Exactly," Derek says, smiling just enough that Stiles notices it.

"So, this place isn't too bad," Stiles says, trying to start a conversation. It shouldn't be this hard to talk to his _boyfriend_ , but they're in a goddamned fancy restaurant, and he doesn't know how this kind of thing works.

"I like white chocolate," Derek answers, as if it had anything to do with anything that Stiles has said.

"What?"

"I know you say I don't like food, but I like that. Some things I eat for pleasure, not to feed myself. And I like white chocolate."

"Oh. That's good," he says, realizing that there's a message there somewhere but not quite able to figure out what it is. "But, white?" he says, wrinkling his nose. "That's not even chocolate, Derek. It's cocoa butter and sugar. It's...it's like saying what you like about peanut butter is peanut shells."

"That doesn't make any sense. And I don't like peanut butter."

"I don't think this relationship is going to work," Stiles jokes, dramatically tossing his napkin on the table as if he was about to stand up. And Derek smiles wide, showing his teeth.

"I guess we were cursed from the start."

They talk about nothing, or rather Stiles talks and Derek tries to keep up when Stiles jumps from one topic to another, from peanuts to elephants and from there to the field trip to the zoo they took when he was twelve where he got lost because he wouldn't stop watching the way the monkeys combed each others' fur. Derek says something every so often, talks about how he had to pretend to be sick in order to skip those trips, because his parents were afraid the animals would go crazy around him, and the only thing Stiles takes from that is that it's tragic that Derek has never seen a giraffe in person, because they're the funniest animals.

The food isn't too bad if he stops thinking about how much it's going to cost them, and Derek even brings himself to try Stiles's duck, because he's feeling adventurous. And the night is nice, he has to say, but it's no different from any other night where they eat dinner and Stiles rambles pointlessly for hours until the food gets cold. And honestly he doesn't understand how going out for dinner was supposed to make them more interesting people. If they'd gone to the breakfast buffet at the strip club, maybe, but this nice restaurant is too conventional for Stiles's taste. And although Derek looks fantastic in that shirt, he misses the gray shirts with the worn collars and the way Derek's neck looks when he moves.

"What?" he asks, following Derek's gaze towards the table next to them, where a nervous couple their age is sharing a chocolate coulant. There could be no greater cliche.

"It's funny," Derek says, half-smiling. "The way they look each other in the eye and lie."

"My god," Stiles says in a whisper, leaning his elbows on the table to get closer to Derek. "What are they saying?"

"Not just them," Derek says, wrinkling his forehead. "Everyone, in general. They make promises of love that are lies, and they stink of arousal. It's sad."

"I thought it was funny."

"It's funny for me because I don't make the effort."

"You're the worst," Stiles says, frowning unconvincingly. "Are you going to want dessert?"

"No. You?"

"I want to go home and eat ice cream on the sofa and watch _The Golden Girls_ ," Stiles answers, leaning his chin on the palm of his hand. "And I'll be boring, but I'm done with this stupid date."

"Good, me, too."

"Seriously, why do I pay attention to Scott?"

"I've asked myself that since day one."

They ask for the bill and each pay half. Because, really, Stiles is a modern man, and he doesn't need someone taking care of him; but, walking back to the car he puts his arm around Derek, because he's a teenager, too, and he likes to have something pretty close to him.

"Maybe only boring people need dates, hm?" he says, looking at the horizon to give the moment some deeper significance. "I like that theory. If only I'd had it a week ago."

Derek laughs and rolls his eyes, opening the door of the car for him.


	18. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This is horrible and it's several hours late on top of that, but the idea I had didn't work and…UGH."

Final exams come and go, and Stiles manages to get good grades in everything except Chemistry (because, seriously, Mr. Harris has no sense of humor and doesn't appreciate Stiles telling him he should get more fiber in his diet, during the exam, in front of the whole class).

In any case, summer arrives, and barbecues, and staying up till dawn and pool parties at Jackson's house, which Stiles is finally invited to. And he's excited. Because it's the first summer where it's not just Scott and him playing Playstation and killing time in the woods. They're still a pair, competing to see who'll make a bigger splash jumping into the pool, but Isaac and Boyd are there, too, blatantly staring at Lydia lying under an umbrella in her bikini, and Jackson and Erica trying to make sure no-one notices they've been sleeping together secretly for a month, and Allison swimming more quickly than any of the wolves. And Derek, sitting in the shade with a beer and his proud father face.

Stiles gets out of the pool and walks over to him, making sure to drip on his white shirt.

"Come swim."

"I'm fine here."

"I won't let you drown," Stiles says, biting his lip to stop himself from laughing.

"Funny."

Stiles runs his hands over Derek's face and neck, leaving trails of water behind, and watches as they evaporate in the heat. He gets Derek's hair and arms wet, and Derek shifts position, but he doesn't complain.

"I don't want you to get sunstroke," he says as an excuse, but really he just wanted to touch Derek, feel his hot skin under his hands.

"I'm in the shade, Stiles."

"You're allowed to have fun, you know," Stiles reminds him, determined, before inserting himself between Derek's legs and putting his head under Derek's chin.

"I'm getting soaked."

"That's my plan. Do you have your cell phone on you?"

"No. Why do you a—?" And before Derek can react to the change in the air, his pack is there, surrounding him with dangerous smiles on their faces. Stiles ducks and crawls under his boyfriend to get out of the middle, while Boyd and Scott grab his feet and Erica and Jackson grab his hands and lift him into the air.

"No, no, no," he grunts, fighting to free himself, and for a second Stiles is afraid he's going to transform and eat them all. But before he can escape Derek's already falling into the water as if in slow motion, right in the center of the pool, causing a miniature tsunami.

"You're all dead," Lydia says, brushing hair away from his face. And Stiles thinks maybe they are.

"Fuck!" Derek shouts once his head is above water after pushing off the bottom. The white shirt is clinging to his body and Stiles thinks that if he's going to die this will have been worth it, just to see that. "Who taught you to be such sneaky bastards?" he says. And then a smile tugs at his lips, so small that Stiles thinks he's dreaming it. Scott laughs, throwing himself in the water while he shouts crazily, and the others follow suit, each one more ridiculous than the last.

And Stiles knows it's going to be the best summer of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And apparently Erica/Jackson is a thing that's happening in my head. Surprise."


	19. Transformation

Derek doesn't know how to ask. He hasn't had to ask anything for a while, because that's what being an Alpha is; he's not a leader who needs to give orders, the pack just knows what to do without him having to say it.

It's different with Stiles, because _he_ always knows what Derek wants before Derek does himself. And Stiles gives, and gives, and gives. His time and his love and his body and his sanity, he's given everything. What Derek needs now is nothing compared to that, but he doesn't know how to ask for it.

"I'm going home," Stiles says, stretching his arms above his head. "My father's going to think you've kidnapped me. Or that we ran away to Vegas to get married. Maybe I should stop talking about how much I want Elvis to be at my wedding."

"Stiles," Derek says quietly, putting the last plate on the kitchen shelf and drying his hands on his pants. "Stiles," he says again, a little louder and less hesitant.

"What?"

"Don't go yet," Derek says, and it sounds too much like an order. "Please?"

"Are you okay?" Stiles asks, putting his hand on Derek's forehead as if to check for a fever. "You could fry an egg on your face, as usual."

"Let's go for a walk."

"We spent all day inside; do we have to do it right now? Because really, my father called and—"

"No, it's okay. Sure. Another time." And maybe it'll be better this way, because Derek's doing this spectacularly poorly.

"I'm starting to be worried about your mental health. If you have something to tell me..." He opens his eyes wide and whispers, "You're not going to break up with me, are you?"

"No! Of course not. The opposite—"

"You're going to ask me to marry you?" Stiles interrupts. "Because what I said about Elvis—well, it's totally true, but I'm only seventeen and I don't think it's legal—"

"Stiles, can you be quiet for two seconds?" Derek asks, closing his eyes and trying to organize his thoughts.

"Yes. Sorry. It's just that I get nervous when you're nervous."

"I want to show you something," Derek says simply, gesturing in the general direction of the forest.

"Okay."

He leaves the kitchen and Stiles follows him, a few feet behind, walking with quick steps to try to keep up. It's only going to be five minutes, Derek thinks, trying to convince himself. It's not that important, it's not some transcendent event. When Laura did it, it was like this, in the woods in Upstate New York, and only he was there to see it. It's the one ceremony he remembers and the only one that matters to him. He heard stories about his father's, about how the whole family got together in the forest and spent the night howling until Animal Control came.

Maybe the whole pack _should_ be there, but it doesn't matter to Derek.

He's not sure how he should do it. He stops somewhere at random, because he also doesn't know if he should do it in some specific place in the woods, and he starts taking off his leather jacket.

"Oh," says Stiles. "Um."

"It's nothing like that," Derek says, stopping him before he can get the wrong idea. He takes off his shirt and lays it on the ground before starting to unbutton his pants.

"Derek, seriously."

He steps on the bottom of his jeans to get his legs out of them, and Stiles's eyes get huge. As if he didn't see him with no clothes on _every day_.

"You know that when a werewolf becomes an Alpha, he can take his true form," Derek says, and he can't avoid sounding a bit scared.

"You're really naked right now, Derek. I'm not processing anything you're saying."

Derek opens his mouth to explain, but he realizes it's going to be much easier if he just _shows_ him. He closes his eyes and just breathes, and before he realizes it his muscles are reorganizing, his bones are stretching and changing shape. And it doesn't hurt, really; he only feels a kind of weird pressure when his internal organs move and his face lengthens, and he feels a change hin his throat.

"Good god!" Stiles shouts, and Derek opens his eyes again. He sees differently when he's a wolf, and the way he sees Stiles is strange. As if he glowed at the edges, as if he was the only clear thing in the world. "Oh, my god. God."

Derek wants to tell him to be a bit more eloquent, but the only thing that comes out is a light growl.

"Can you...can you hear me in there?" Stiles asks, kneeling to be at eye level with him.

Derek nods, because he can't tell him that he's not _in_ anything, that this is what he is, that this is is true form. That only when he's a wolf is he really _him_.

"This is the best thing that's happened in my life." Derek moves his tail and Stiles laughs out loud. "Can I touch you?"

Derek comes closer to him and rubs his nose against Stiles's hand, and Stiles doesn't hesitate to scratch behind his ears.

"You're beautifu," he says, running his fingers through the fur at Derek's neck. "And I know that's not exactly the word you want to hear, but since you can't talk, deal with it. You're beautiful."

Derek growls playfully and Stiles laughs again. And maybe Stiles has reservations, because there's always a part of him, Derek knows, that isn't quite comfortable with the idea that his boyfriend isn't completely human. That part of him that thinks about the rest of his life, how nothing will be normal between them. But then he feels Stiles next to him and listens to his heartbeat, regular and sure, and he feels his firm hands and knows he's not afraid. That he still recognizes the man he loves inside this animal, even though there's nothing human about him and maybe there never has been. Derek presses his head against Stiles's body, and Stiles gets down on his knees on the ground, sitting on his heels.

"You know you're less threatening like this than normally?" he says, and leans in to kiss the end of Derek's nose. "Your nose is wet."

So Derek licks his face, just because he can.


	20. Tremble

When Stiles touches him, their bodies tremble at the same frequency.


	21. Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Danny is my favorite; let me tell you why."

Danny has become a habitual presence in Derek's house. It doesn't matter to Stiles, because Danny's nice and funny and they've got a lot of interests in common, which is something that hasn't happened with the rest of the pack, and somehow he makes Jackson more bearable, which is nice, too. And yet, it's still weird. Because Stiles is used to the way the pack worked before, with him being the human with the computers, the one who used his brain before his brawn. And Danny is better than him in every way. Danny can write a program in ten minutes that will filter all announcements that might be relevant on the police network for Northen California, but he can also floor Boyd with a punch to the jaw. And he does it all charmingly, politely, and making Lydia laugh, which is something Stiles still dreams of doing.

The sun is setting and Stiles is debating whether to go home or spend the night with Derek for the third time this week, which would guarantee a chat with his father. They're on the porch and the sky is orange and pink and covered with pure white clouds, and there's a light breeze that makes him lean into Derek to keep warm. Going home sounds like torture.

"Danny asked me to give him the bite," Derek says suddenly.

"What?" Stiles says, grunting and turning to look at him. "When?"

"This afternoon."

"And what did you tell him?"

"That I'd think about it."

"Derek, please, elaborate," Stiles says, punching Derek's arm to encourage him. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm not going to do it."

"Why?" Stiles asks, because he's sure Danny would be a fantastic wolf.

"He doesn't have any real reason to want it."

"So why did he ask you, then?"

Derek spends a moment choosing his words.

"He just wants a reason to stay close to Jackson," he says finally.

"What? No, you don't understand. You don't get how Danny and Jackson work. Their unbreakable, like adamantium. If their friendship survived coming out of the closet, finding the adoption papers, a crazy relationship with Lydia, Jackson showing up at Danny's house bleeding black from his ears... Danny doesn't need to be in the pack to keep Jackson." He laughs, as if the very idea was stupid. "No. Danny is Jackson's one person in the world and he'll stay that way until they're eighty."

"Jackson has a pack now. If he had a problem right now, who would he go to?" Derek says, and he takes Stiles's wrinkled forehead as an answer. "Danny needs to be at the top of the list."

"Are you afraid of him?"

"No."

"You're feeling threatened by Danny Mahealani?" Stiles insists; the idea is ridiculous. Because Danny is an adorable mound of dimples and politically correct humor, and Stiles is sure that he's never done even the tiniest bit of harm to anyone in his life. "He's not going to steal your puppy, Derek. If anyone's going to be with you till the end, it's Jackson. Seriously."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Danny's not a leader. He's a follower."

"And who does he follow?" Derek asks, as if he'd been expecting Stiles to give the wrong answer. "Danny's a unique human being," he says, shaking his head. "Much stronger than he seems, because he doesn't call attention to himself, doesn't make noise. He's so discreet that even Jackson doesn't realize the way he controls him."

"Are you serious?" Stiles exclaims, incredulous.

"Jackson needs the illusion of being in control of things, and Danny gives it to him. Jackson needs to know what to do and to think that it was his idea the whole time.

"You've thought a lot about this."

"I don't take it lightly," Derek says. "And I think if I turned Danny there'd be an imbalance of power in the pack."

"He's not going to take your job; he's not that kind of guy."

"Jackson will always be at his side," Derek replies. "It would be dangerous."

"I can't believe you're going to say no just because you're afraid he's going to undermine your authority with Jackson," Stiles says, and he's a little disappointed, because this is cowardly of Derek. "I know we don't talk about it, like parents with a...special child, but Jackson is the Omega."

Derek can't hold back a small, guilty laugh.

"He just needs more attention than the others. I'm pretty sure _you_ 're the Omega, the bottom step of the pyramid," he jokes.

"That's the base, and it's the most important part, in case you haven't noticed," Stiles replies, elbowing him in the ribs affectionately. But he's still bothered. Danny would be more strength for the pack, more protection, more power for Derek. And Stiles realizes that it wouldn't bother him to have Danny around for the rest of his life, because if he can get used to Erica and Lydia and Jackson, who are the most annoying wolves in history, he can deal with Danny. "Would there be an imbalance of power if you turned me?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "Is that why you've never offered?"

"You don't want it."

"But I should, right? It's a gift, and all that."

Derek sighs and looks at him as if surprised by how little he understands.

"Scott wouldn't wait a second before joining your pack if you decided to go," he says after a moment, and Stiles isn't sure if he's being serious, but it sounds like he is. "And I need Scott."

"And you need _me_ ," Stiles suggests, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Yes," Derek admits. "That, too."


	22. Furious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This chapter was the hardest to write, and if I think twice about it I'll delete the whole thing and forget about it. Thanks to Lleu for explaining to me how college applications in the US work, which is a topic I'll address again later.
> 
> Everything I know about couples arguing I learned on television :)"

Derek and Stiles don't argue. They have arguments, sure, when Stiles puts the dirty knife in the mayonnaise and leaves it filled with crumbs, or when Derek comes into his room through the window to avoid thirty seconds of meaningless conversation with the Sheriff. They yell for a bit and stop talking for a few hours or a couple of days, but in the end they forget it. They're not real fights, because what they have is too much of a "forever" thing for a few crumbs in the mayonnaise to be a problem.

So when Stiles realizes he's angry with Derek, that he's so upset he doesn't know if he can look him in the face, he's scared. He doesn't know when he started to feel this way, but at the beginning of fall the feeling gets so ugly that he can't avoid it. And he's still not sure why.

It's a hot afternoon, and the sheets are clinging to their skin. Derek is starting to fall asleep next to him, naked, but there's something in Stiles's stomach that makes it impossible for him to curl up next to Derek until their bodies melt together. He just wants to get far away from Derek and stop feeling these things.

"I'm going home," he says, not entirely convincingly. He sits up on the edge of the bed and looks for his clothes on the floor.

"So soon? I thought we were going to watch a movie."

"I've got stuff to do. I've... I told my dad I'd look at college stuff; you know," he says, groping for an excuse. It's not a lie, because the Sheriff has spent months asking him if he's decided anything and if he's started writing applications, but he's not sure he wants to. He's not sure he wants to leave Beacon Hills, go to college, spend four years on the other side of the country.

"Okay," Derek says, falling back on the bed again. And Stiles realizes this is it, this is exactly what he can't deal with, what's driving him away from Derek. Derek suddenly doesn't care about his life.

"Okay," Stiles says, pulling on his pants, and he can't make it not sound like an insult. "See you later."

"Stiles," Derek says, looking at him with a strange expression on his face. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know, Derek. You tell me. Tell me what the fuck is up with you."

"With me?"

"It's too hot, and I don't want to argue," Stiles mutters angrily, pulling on his shirt.

"I'm not arguing."

"I'm not interested in you being funny, either."

"Stiles," Derek says, his voice serious and restrained. "This is one of those times where I don't understand what you're feeling, so—"

"Good. I'm tired of you always being the one who knows everything," Stiles barks out, starting to realize just how angry he is, how angry he's been all summer. "I never know anything; you never talk to me."

"What the fuck?" Derek says, getting up from the bed, and Stiles is weirdly satisfied that Derek is starting to sound like he's in a bad mood, too.

" _I'm_ not the one with the problem, Derek."

"I don't know what the problem _is_ ," Derek says, and he's starting to raise his voice. Stiles isn't sure he can deal with it if Derek yells at him, but it's too late to avoid it and if he yells at least he'll know Derek's feeling something.

"Do I still matter to you at all? Because—"

"What?"

"Because for a while now it's seemed like—"

"Stiles," Derek cuts him off. "What part of 'all my life' did you not understand?"

"I don't want to be with you my whole life if it's going to be like this."

"What?" Derek stammers, and his face changes completely, as if he were suddenly someone else. And maybe Stiles wanted to hurt him so he'd react, but seeing him hurting this much breaks Stiles's heart.

"I'm seventeen," he says, even though he doesn't have the strength to fight anymore. "Is this going to be the rest of my life? If you're only still with me because there's something in your biology that—"

"Stiles, I love you," Derek says, and it's the first time, although Stiles has known it for a long time, since the beginning. And he would have liked to hear it in any other situation, one where Derek wouldn't have shouted it, to justify himself, and that just makes Stiles angrier.

"Do you?"

"What kind of question is that? Fuck."

"You can hardly stand me half the time. And can you please put some clothes on?" Stiles says, pointing at Derek's naked body.

Derek grabs the sheet from the bed between them and winds it around his waist, although only so he doesn't have to argue about that, too.

"Where are you getting this from?" he asks as he does it.

"Every time I talk to you about something other than the pack you look at me like you want me to shut up and leave the house."

"That's not true."

"I'm not with you to be your secretary of wolfly affairs, Derek. I'm with you regardless of whether you're a werewolf or an Alpha or—" he sighs, running his hands through his hair. "Why are you still with me?"

"Because you're the only person I'm ever going to love in my life," Derek answers, without hesitating even half a second.

"So you're afraid of being alone."

"Are you hearing what you're saying?" Derek says, with a cynical smile.

"When was the last time _you_ listened to _me_?"

"When was the last time you talked to me about something that wasn't college or work or—" Derek starts.

"What? Is that what's going on?"

"I don't _know_ what's going on!"

"Derek, it'll all be over in a few months," Stiles reminds him. "It's a big decision, and every time I try to talk about it with you I feel like you couldn't care less."

"Are you as stupid as you sound right now?"

"You bastard,"

Stiles spits back, feeling anger bubble up under his skin. "I've been trying all summer to get you to tell me what I should do, what you want me to do."

"I can't decide for you."

"You can help me decide! You're helping Jackson and Boyd and all the others!"

"It's not the same thing," Derek says, suddenly cold.

"Why not?"

"It's not; that's all."

"Derek, for the love of god."

"Because I'm their Alpha," he admits, finally, "and even if they spend four years on the other side of the world they'll still need to answer to me. They'll always come back to wherever I am."

"And I won't?"

"I'm just your _boyfriend_ ," Derek says, as if the word itself was an insult. "College is going to change you, it'll make you grow, and I don't want you to miss out on that. But the idea of you leaving me makes me want to...to punch a hole in the wall." He grunts, making a fist. "Because I'm tied to you, but you can leave whenever you want and I won't be able to do a thing about it."

"But I'm not going to—"

"You're going to meet better people than me, Stiles. People you've got things in common with, people who are smarter, more easygoing."

And he was right not to say anything, even if Stiles can't understand it. Derek was right to stay quiet every time Stiles brought it up, which was constantly, and to say everything sounded good to him when he obviously hated it.

"I don't want to meet anybody," Stiles assures him, and even though he's still annoyed he just wants to get close to Derek and say it over and over again until Derek's convinced it's true. "I thought I'd made that clear."

"But you're going to if you go to college. I can't ask you to give that up for me, because I'm not going to let you sacrifice your future. But I also can't get you excited about going because it'll kill me when you do. What am I supposed to tell you when you ask my opinion about some program, Stiles?" he says, and it's not a rhetorical quesiton, because he's asking Stiles with his eyes to help him find the answer. "Do you want me to tell you how selfish I feel, when I think about you losing your chance to go to a better school to stay close to me? What kind of Alpha I am for considering moving the pack to wherever you go? How I'm not worth someone like you when I'm like this?" Derek asks, each question more downhearted than the last. "Sometimes I think that the only thing you need in life is me, that even if you didn't have a job or anything you'd have me and the pack and you'd be fine, because that's all _I_ need. Sometimes it's easier if I forget that you're your own person, Stiles," he confesses, and his face twists into a grimace of unhappiness. And Stiles can't stay angry with him, because Derek's already upset enough for both of them. "What should I do?"

And he's asking Stiles for help for the first time since they met. He's linked words together in the longest speech Stiles has ever heard him make, and every single one of them is a desperate "please". Stiles should defend himself and say that he hates that Derek doesn't trust him, that he pretends to know what Stiles wants better than Stiles does himself. And he will. But not now, when Derek is open and vulnerable in front of him, because he needs Stiles more than Stiles needs to yell at him.

"We can decide together," he suggests, climbing onto the bed and crawling over to the other side. "We can find something that works for both of us."

"No. This whole time, you've ignored everything else in your life to worry about the pack. You've got to stop," Derek says. "This isn't going to work if I treat you as if you were my property and you let me do it."

"There hasn't been a single moment where I haven't done exactly what I wanted," Stiles assures him. "The lacross games I've skipped, those nights in the woods, weekends of training... I chose to do all that. I haven't stopped my life because _this_ is my life now, and I wouldn't want it any other way. Now I've got a family of people who'd kill for me and a real idea of what I want to do, and I don't care if that makes me seem weak or dependent or—" He cuts himself off, because he's thought about it too many times and he doesn't like the words that come next. "I want to take care of you my whole life, Derek. That's the one thing that's clear to me. And I'm more afraid of that than anything else in my life because I'm realizing now that I don't know how. And I thought I was losing you, and now I hate you for being so stupid. But I love you. And I hate you for telling me you loved me like this, of course."

"I know."

"I think I want to go to college, but I'm afraid to go alone. I'm not going to let you make anyone go with me," he warns Derek, before he can suggest it. "And I know that the Alpha isn't supposed to leave his territory, so I don't know what to do, Derek. I really need your help."

"We'll find a way."

"Without punching the walls?"

"I will make no such promises."

"Fuck, you need to talk to me more," Stiles says, scolding. "You can't do this to me."

"I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's note: sorry this took such a ridiculously long time to get posted; college started back up and my English-language beta was out of commission for a while but we're back now and hopefully things should get moving again.


	23. Thousand

Sometimes it seems like he's a thousand years old, like he's been here longer than the trees and the rocks. He looks at himself in the mirror and the only thing he sees is time, each day marked on his skin. The fire on his forehead, Laura under his eyes, Peter in the space between his eyebrows.

Stiles runs his fingers over the lines on Derek's face and tries to smooth them out, to ease the pain and loss and hurt. But the damage is done and skin never forgets, nor does Derek. He doesn't want to forget; it would be cowardly.

He looks at Stiles's face and counts the lines on his forehead. He wonders if they're for his mother, for his father's job or his father's whiskey, if any of those lines is his fault. Stiles catches him looking and laughs, wrinkling his forehead as if his face needed more space to hold his giant smile, and Derek smiles back. And those marks are new.


	24. Outside

It's another one of those weird wolf things that Stiles doesn't understand: when Derek is with him, the rest of the pack acts like something spongy and soft was wrapped around them. They're quieter, almost sleepy, and it's part strange, part fascinating. As if they were drugged. As if Derek's simple happiness was somehow contagious.

It only happens on those lazy afternoons after meetings or training, where they collapse on the damp ground in the forest and fill themselves with its sounds and smells. The whole pack piles up, a mass of linked legs and arms, and Derek takes Stiles and brings him a little ways away, just a few yards, to hold him at his side. Stiles has learned not to tease him and to let the Alpha do what he needs to do, because he knows this kind of thing is beyond his human comprehension. Scott doesn't think it's weird when Stiles asks him about it, so after a while he convinces himself that it's not and just lets it happen.

Derek lies close to him, fitting his body to the angles of Stiles's, and buries his face in Stiles's neck, breathing deeply while his hands run slowly over Stiles's skin. And it's definitely weird, because it's not remotely sexual, not even when Derek kisses him, short and chaste. It's sweet, and it's intimate, because Derek is never as calm and close to him as in these moments. Almost worshipping him, every freckle and every eyelash and every inch of visible skin.

Stiles would like him to save this for when they're alone, because he feels naked even under three layers of clothes. And Derek feels naked to him, no leather jacket or jeans, no skin and muscles underneath; he's so naked that his body isn't even really there.

"Stiles, relax," Derek says in a whisper, and he tries, really, but he's too aware of his best friend over there looking at him, and his childhood crush, and a heap of threatening werewolves. "Try to go to sleep."

"Derek..."

"This would be easier if we were piled up with the others."

"Yeah, no," Stiles says quickly. Derek brushes his stubble-covered cheek against Stiles's collar. Stiles closes his eyes and tries to do what he's told, to listen to the others falling asleep, one by one, starting with Allison, and to how Derek's breathing is getting heavier every second, his hands slower.

"Derek," he starts in a low voice, as if the others couldn't hear him perfectly. "Why—I mean, what's the point of all this?"

"I don't know," Derek says, his voice rough. Stiles can't stop himself from fidgeting a little, awkwardly, but Derek just pulls him closer. "My father and mother did it. I don't know how it happens, but look at them." Stiles lifts his head enough to glance sideways at the enormous pile of smiling, dreaming teenagers. "We need this. We need some peace."

And Stiles guesses that's true.

"Try not to purr, Derek, because this is already off the charts for weird things happening in my life right now."

"It's not purring, it's constant growling," Derek says, and demonstrates, a little louder, so Stiles can feel it reverberating in his chest.


	25. Winter

The last time Derek saw Laura was on Christmas Day. They spent it alone together in the little apartment in Brooklyn, eating roast beef sandwiches and trying not to think about the silence.

Holidays at home were always special. Their mother got all the kids together and baked cookies that she helped them decorate later, and they always came out ugly beyond hope but delicious. Their father made his secret turkey recipe and their aunts did the side dishes. Mashed potatos had always been Derek's favorite, but they always made him sit at the far side of the table from them, because he could eat the whole serving dish without even tasting the meat.

Derek didn't like Christmas. He thought it was a stupid, boring holiday, hours and hours of sitting and eating until his stomach threatened to explode. Uncle Peter always ended up annoying their father, and one of the littlest cousins would start crying over some joke. Not even the presents were worth it once he got older. People only give him clothes that, frankly, showed they didn't know him at all, and he had to smile at his aunts and wear the new clothes for the whole next week before putting them in the bottom of his dresser to rot. It was hell. But he was a teenager, and he was allowed to be tired of his family, because it was gigantic and they all lived under the same roof and he could never be alone, even when he went out into the woods.

Now he misses it. In Brooklyn, nibbling the crust of sandwiches Laura bought at the last minute in the store downstairs, he missed it a lot.

They didn't do anything special, didn't have cake or exchange gifts or even wish each other merry Christmas. As soon as they were done eating, she went to her room to pack her things for a quick trip to Beacon Hills, to find out what was spreading chaos in her territory. He took out one of the books he had to read for class and sat down on the couch.

He remembers perfectly how much he'd wanted Laura to say no when he asked if she needed him to go with her. How relieved he'd been when she assured him that she wouldn't be gone more than a week, that he should take advantage of his vaccation and go to the end of year party he'd been invited to. She told him to get drunk and get laid, because he was going to have the apartment to himself and he needed it.

She took her little weekend bag, just her toothbrush and a few shirts, winked at him, and left.

"Don't do anything stupid, little brother."

A week later, Peter killed her. It was starting to snow over New York when Derek felt it, as if his chest had been ripped in two. He was getting dressed to go to that stupid party.


	26. Diamond

Scott opens the little box with shaking hands and sets it on the table.

"Jesus," says Stiles, picking it up. "Holy mother of — Scott!"

"Is it too small?"

It's the tiniest diamond he's ever seen in his life, but that's the least of Stiles's worries right now.

"Scott, it's an engagement ring."

"I could have bought a bigger one at a pawn shop or something, but... I didn't want it to be leftover from a broken marriage, you know? So I went to the jeweler in—"

"Yeah. Great," Stiles cuts him off. "You do know that this is an engagement ring, right?"

"Of course, I do, Stiles."

"Is she pregnant?"

"What? No!" Scott says, his eyes opening wide. "Well, I hope not. I'm only seventeen, dude."

"Exactly! Scott. You're a teenager, you can't go getting married, unless she's pregnant. And even then there are a bunch of options—"

"Stiles, she's not pregnant," Scott assures him. "I want to marry her because I love her."

"Sure, and I love Derek, but I'm not going to ask him to marry me."

"Good to know," Derek says, throwing him an irritated look that Stiles doesn't catch.

"Why not?" Scott asks.

"I don't know. Because I'm not even old enough to vote, or to drink, or—"

"We'd wait until we were eighteen to get married," Scott says.

"Ah, that takes a load off my mind," Stiles says sarcastically. "Not!"

"Don't you want to spend your whole life with Derek? What difference is there between starting now and starting in ten years?"

"Good question," Derek throws in.

"No. Quiet, you," Stiles tells Derek, flailing a hand in his direction without even looking at him. "You have no right to intervene here; this is my best friend being an idiot."

"It's _my_ pack. And, Scott, know that you have my blessing and support," Derek says calmly, apparently unperturbed by this turn of events. "I didn't trust Allison before, but she's shown that she's not like her family. She's not an Argent; she's been a McCall since the day you both met."

"My god, Derek. Thanks a lot," Scott says excitedly, standing up to hug him. "Do you want to talk at the wedding?"

"Are we all going crazy?" Stiles shouts, knocking over his chair as he jumps up. "Stop hugging! I didn't give you permission to hug. And stop talking about weddings, because you don't know if she's going to say yes."

"She's going to say yes," Derek says. "Just like you'd say yes if I asked you right now."

"No, Derek. We'll discuss this difference of opinions about the right age to get engaged later; preferably never."

"What's the right age?"

"Derek, did you hear me?"

"Don't you want to marry me?" Derek asks.

"Not now."

"You don't want to get married now or you don't want to talk about it now."

"Neither," Stiles says with a groan. "Can we talk about Scott?"

"There's nothing to say, Stiles," Scott says, crossing his arms. "I want to be with Allison and I don't want to wait to do it. I was going to ask you to be my best man, but if it bothers you that much—"

"It doesn't bother me, Scott. Don't be stupid. Of course I want to be your best man," Stiles says, reaching for the chair to sit down before he realizes it's not there anymore, so he puts his hands on the table instead and leans towards Scott. "But I want you to be happy, and I don't think getting married at eighteen is going to make you happy in the long run. Being married isn't easy; it's nothing like what you and Allison have now. It's depending on the other person, living together and getting up with their bad breath and bad mood in the morning, taking care of a house, paying for the phone and the cable and the groceries, thinking about 'us' instead of 'me'," he says, and when Scott tries to interrupt Stiles stops him. "And going home to your mom crying because 'Ally' doesn't make dinner or makes you clean up when it's your turn isn't marriage, it's playing house. And that never lasts, however much your relationship may be fate or forever. It won't last. I don't know of any case where something like that has lasted. Scott, I want both of you to be happy. I want you to go to college and study, or don't and find a job that you love and that makes you grow, whatever, and I want you to really get to know each other, with your imperfections and little crazinesses and all those things that are unbearable for the rest of humanity. And when you've done that and are able to stay together despite everything, then I'll be overjoyed to go to your wedding and I'll cry digustingly, I swear to god. And I know you love each other, dude, but that doesn't mean the rest will work. It's not magic; it's something you have to learn."

Scott looks at him a moment, then at Derek, whose face is unreadable.

"Fuck. I really love her."

"I know?"

"What should I do?"

"I'm not telling you not to ask her; it's your decision," Stiles says, shrugging. "I'm just hoping you won't."

"That helps a lot."

"It's called being an adult. And adults are the people I think are ready to get married, in case you didn't notice—"

"It was clear," Derek says, managing not to sound angry but also not exactly friendly.

"I think I'm going to talk to my mom." Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, knowing that Melissa is a sensible person, and anyway she's not big on the whole marriage thing, so she'll be able to make Scott see reason. "Yeah. I'm going," Scott says again, picking the box up and putting it in its little bag before looking at Stiles one more time.

Derek gets up, too, and when Stiles looks at him for some kind of explanation, Derek doesn't give it.

"I'll go to the door with you," is all Derek says, and he doesn't just follow Scott to the hall, but all the way to the car. Stiles watches them for a minute, wishing he could hear what they were saying, until Derek looks at him and he tries belatedly to hide behind the curtains. He can't imagine Derek is convincing Scott to get married, because maybe Derek is a wolf and a bit naive and doesn't understand how human relationships work, but Stiles knows that what he said got through to him, that he understood Stiles's warnings, because they're logical and they're real and Stiles is a great orator. So he doesn't know what they have to say that's so secret.

Stiles picks the chair up from the floor and stands it up again so he can sit down, fidgeting his legs nervously and biting his nails until Derek comes back to the kitchen a few minutes later. He stops next to Stiles and puts a hand on his head, running his fingers through Stiles's short hair.

"Do you want to talk?" Derek asks after a moment.

"Do we have to?" Stiles says, and Derek just clicks his tongue. "What did you tell Scott?"

"I did my best to make sure you didn't hear."

"Because you said I was right? And you know that if I know I'll never let you live it down?" he jokes, although not quite confidently enough not to sound desperate.

"Do you really believe everything you said?"

"Really really."

"And if I asked you now...?" 

"Don't," Stiles says. "I don't want to have to say no. Because I want it to be the happiest moment of my life when you ask me, not the most uncomfortable."

"All right," Derek says simply.

"This shouldn't be my life; fuck," Stiles mutters, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. He's only seventeen years old, and he doesn't know if he's too young or too old for all of this to be happening.


	27. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The university system in the United States is still basically incomprehensible for me, so forgive me if I've said something stupid. And, well, forgive me for everything else."

In march, the letters started arriving. First the small colleges on the other side of the country which he'd only applied to in case everything else went wrong; they all accept him. Which doesn't help at all, because Stiles needs them to make this decision for him, needs only one or two schools to accept him and take away the weight of the decision so he can just flip a coin. But he gets in everywhere, because apparently Stiles Stilinski is a prodigy and colleges across the country are fighting to get him. It doesn't make sense. Of course, his grades are fantastic and his applications could forever revolutionize the field with their combination of genuine desire for knowledge and self-deprecating bite, but, even so, why do they suddenly want him so much? Why hadn't anyone ever told him he'd be so coveted in the future? It would have saved him half a life of doubts and insecurities.

They're only third-class schools. It's not the Ivy League, it's not freaking Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, so there's no reason to get excited. Anyway, they're on the other coast, and he doesn't want to think about it.

And then comes the letter from Irvine. The fifth best criminology program in the country, _and_ it's in California, just ten hours by car, which is a lot of hours but better than forty to Maryland. And they want him. And Stiles decides he can forget the other ideas, because that's what he's wanted since he saw the first episode of _Criminal Minds_ when he was eleven and discovered _The Silence of the Lambs_ at twelve, since he took out all of Robert K. Ressler's books from the library and read them hidden under the sheets, since he first stuck his nose into one of the files his father kept locked up in the office. And he'd always thought it was just a stupid idea, that working for the FBI was a childish dream and that he'd end up an English teacher at Beacon Hills High School, but suddenly it seems real. Maybe not the FBI, because he's not brilliant, but yes studying the criminal mind. And he realizes that it's not that he's been weird his whole life, it's that he's had a calling.

He calls his father, and he calls Derek, and both of them have that certain tone of voice; they're excited and they're proud and terribly happy, but deep down, they'd rather Stiles didn't have to go anywhere. He knows it and decides to ignore it, because he needs to be selfish for a second, or four years, and if he lets himself think about it he won't be able to leave.

So it's decided; all that's left is to make it official. And then comes another letter.

Stiles doesn't even remember why he applied to Stanford, because he can't imagine what Stanford could see in someone like him, but he gets his answer, and the envelope seems very full, which is never a good sign. Normally it would be the best sign, because it only takes one sheet to reject him, but Stiles doesn't think he can deal with the other possibility on the table. With Stanford, which is one of the best schools in the country and the world. So he takes the envelope and gets in his Jeep and goes to Derek's house.

"What's up?" Derek asks, already waiting for him at the door. He must have heard Stiles's nervousness.

"Another letter came," Stiles says, getting out of the car. "And I think they let me in."

"But you've already decided. Right?"

"Derek, this is Stanford."

"Okay," Derek says enigmatically, but Stiles can see the way his eyes light up for a second, because Palo Alto is only five hours away, which means a lot more long weekend visits, more opportunities to be together. "Do they have an interesting program?"

"I don't even know if I got in, Derek."

"It's a very big envelope."

"Fuck. I know. I don't even want to open it."

Because criminology is what he's spent his whole life imagining doing, but Stanford is... It's playing in a whole different league. It's a chance to surround himself with brilliant people, really brilliant, and he's sure he could get something like criminology going if he took a bit of sociology and a bit of psychology and mixes in some law and maybe anthropology. And if not, they've got a good education program, so he can always fall back on that.

He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want this to influence his decision, but Stanford _is_ really close. And it would keep him near Beacon Hills, and he really doesn't want to think about that. About how criminology would take him away to work, but being a high school teacher is a safe and won't affect the pack, and maybe it will make him happy. But maybe not.

The envelope is starting to fray at the edges from him turning it over and over again, so he takes a deep breath, plucks up his courage, and opens it, pulling out the paper monogrammed with the university seal.

"'I am pleased to inform you...'" he reads, and it doesn't take anything else. He takes out the rest of the papers, which are information sheets and financial aid applications, as if they were already taking for granted that he'd accept, and his lungs stop working.

"It's a yes? It's a yes."

"Yes," Stiles says, looking at one of the pictures of smiling young people, so faked. "Shit."

He doesn't know if he wants to hyperventilate or stop breathing entirely, so he cries, and when the tears start to run down his cheeks they clear a lump in his throat that has been there so long it felt like part of his body.

"Calm down," Derek says, looking at him like he doesn't know what to do, like he's afraid Stiles would break if he touched him. He takes Stiles by the shoulders and pulls him close, and Stiles feels the paper falling from his hands to the gravel on the ground, but he can't do anything to avoid it. "You can think about it, you've got time. You can go visit the campuses, see where you feel more—"

"I'm going to _leave_ , Derek," he says, leaning against Derek's chest, as if he'd just realized it. "In the fall I'm going to leave Beacon Hills and I'm not going to come back in four years. Sure, I'll come back for holidays and a weekend or two, but I'm going to _go_. And then what?" he asks, and he starts to feel short of breath. "I'll have to come back. Am I going to work here my whole life in this shitty town? Or in Redding, which doesn't even have 90,000 people. I'm going to have a very relaxed criminology career." He laughs, but not because it's funny, because the tears keep flowing and it doesn't seem like they're going to stop. "I could look for work in Sacramento, too; that's only three hours drive."

"What do you mean?" Derek asks, brushing Stiles's neck with his fingertips.

"That maybe I should go to Stanford and become a teacher, Derek. If I want to stay here."

"Don't worry about that now. Study what you want to study, don't worry—"

"And what am I going to do in Beacon Hills for the rest of my life?" Stiles asks, pulling away from Derek and drying his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. "I can study what I want and then use my college diploma to clean car headlights."

"You could do what your father did."

"And become town sheriff? Derek, it'd be as if you were preparing yourself to be an Alpha and you ended up being...a bulldog," Stiles says, his mouth twisting. "Didn't you have dreams, before all this? You were at NYU—"

"All of that stopped mattering," Derek interrupts.

"Not for me!" he shouts, flailing his arms in the air. "We just keep going in circles. You can't move away from here and I can't stay. And I don't want to have to make this choice. I don't want to have to choose between my life and the pack, between you and me. How can I do this?" he says, choking on his words. Derek takes him back into his arms and pulls him in like he wants to bury himself in Stiles. "Shit, fuck. I can't do it. I can't deal with everything at once. I'm going crazy," he whispers, resting his head in his hands. Derek leans his cheek on Stiles's and takes a deep breath of heavy, thick air.

"Let's go inside," Derek says after a moment, brushing his lips over Stiles's earlobe. Stiles lets himself be pulled to the sofa and allows Derek to tug him down and kiss his whole body for hours, as if he needed to memorize it.

There's something sad in the air, hovering over their heads.

"We'll find a solution," Derek assures him, brushing his teeth on Stiles's hip.

"You always say that."

"And we always find one," Derek answers, and it seems to Stiles that Derek's trying to convince himself, because it sounds too perfect not to believe it. He'll believe anything.


	28. Promise

Each of Stiles's kisses is a promise in some language that only he speaks, but that Derek is slowly learning.

A brush of lips against Derek's ear before going home, mischievous and hiding a smile, usually means that he'll call Derek when his father has gone to bed, and say things that Derek can't help but blush from hearing, although he'd never admit it. Sometimes it's on the neck, sometimes the corner of his mouth, but it's short and playful, meant to leave him turned on. And it always does.

The kiss he gives Derek when they face off against some dangerous creature and Derek comes home tired and bruised, his clothes covered with blood, is so radically different that it doesn't even seem like the same thing. It's a promise that Stiles is never going to leave him alone, and it's a promise Stiles can't keep. It's deep, desperate; Stiles latches onto his shoulders as if he were afraid Derek was going to be taken away, and he kisses Derek with his whole body, opening his mouth as if to drink him in, and Derek responds because in moments like those he knows that any second could be their last.

Stiles's tongue running hot over the inside of his thigh doesn't need translation, but even so Stiles gives it, because hearing himself say it makes him feel powerful.

"I'm going to suck you off."

There are thousands, and every day Derek is learning more. The first one on Sundays, with closed mouth because he hasn't brushed his teeth yet, which is the promise of a lazy day together. The greeting every time they see each other, which says that, wherever Stiles is, he'll always come back to Derek. The one Stiles throws him from across the room when the whole pack is at home, just a brief purse of the lips, which reminds Derek that Stiles will never stop worrying about them all because this is his family, too. The one he gives him a second before he comes, awkward and hot, just to feel himself there with Derek.

But the one Derek likes best, the one that's hardest to figure out, is the kiss on the top of the head, when Derek's sitting on the sofa and Stiles comes up behind him to wrap his arms around his neck. Stiles lets his lips fall on Derek's hair for a second and then leans his chin on Derek's head. They stay there silently for a moment, until Stiles remembers what he wanted to tell Derek. And while he's saying it, while Stiles is telling him that he met Chris Argent at the gas station again because it seems like he _lives_ there, Derek figures it out. It means, _we're going to be together for our whole lives. When I need dentures and when your hair falls out, when being passionate starts to be ridiculous, I'll still be here, and I won't need anything else if_ you _stay with me_.


	29. Simple

At the end of summer they have a goodbye get-together. It's simple: some drinks, a bit of music, boxes and boxes of fried chicken. They sit in Derek's garden, with the forest behind them, and they chat, laugh, exchange impossibly ambitious plans for the future.

Stiles goes over to Derek and sits on the arm of his chair.

"I snagged you a beer," he says, clinking the bottle against the one Derek has in his hand.

Derek shrugs. "With you, alcohol is less dangerous than caffeine. You'll be doing us all a favor," he answers, earning himself an elbow to the stomach."

"Caffeine calms me down, stupid. It's a medical condition I have, maybe you're not familiar with it, that's why I have to take amphetamines—"

"I get it, Stiles," Derek says, leaning on him. "You're almost in college; I'm not going to be the one telling you not to have a beer."

He tries to look like he's okay, but he's not fooling anyone, especially not Stiles. In fifteen days the whole pack will be spread out across the country, and he'll be here without the only thing that's kept him going these past years. An Alpha without a pack. Scott isn't leaving Beacon Hills, because he's going to work with Dr. Deaton in the clinic, and Isaac isn't ready to leave the only positive father figure he's had in his life, so he's decided to take a year off and volunteer with a youth group. But even so, two betas aren't a pack. All the rest will stay tied to him anyway, but however much they keep saying it, they know it won't be the same for Derek.

The truth is that it won't be easy for anyone. Jackson, who's always been the best at hiding his feelings from the rest of the wolves, smells like desperation. Stiles can't smell it, but he sees it, and Derek confirms it for him. He's latched on to Danny as if he wanted to stock up on him before Danny goes off to MIT with Lydia, and every time one of the two of them mentions Massachusetts he visibly shrinks. He applied there, too, but he didn't get off the waiting list, which doesn't help at all with his inexplicable inferiority complex. So while his two best friends are majoring in artificial intelligence and discrete mathematics, respectively (it turns out they really are geniuses), he'll be doing economics at Princeton, and he's found ways to think he's a failure even in the Ivy League, the idiot.

Just then Jackson looks over at them, and Stiles has to remind himself that being a werewolf has a lot of advantages, but telepathy isn't one of them. Jackson seems to be asking if he can come over, and Derek gives permission with a nod of his head, pointing for him to sit down in the chair next to them.

"What? Do you want a beer, too?" Derek asks, raising his eyebrows. And he might be joking, which is an unmistakable sign that something's wrong.

"Beer's a lot less fun when it's practically impossible to get drunk."

"It has its attractions," Derek says, glancing at his own bottle.

"And drinking it makes you look a lot more rugged than if it were, I don't know, grapefruit juice," Stiles adds. "With a little straw and a little rice paper umbrella. A pink one. I think there's one in the kitchen," he says, starting to get up to let Jackson and Derek talk about whatever it is Jackson wants to talk about, but Derek puts a hand on his thigh and stops him.

So he stays, leans his elbow on Derek's shoulder, and watches him while he does his Alpha stuff, because it never stops being exciting. Jackson just wants Derek to reassure him that he'll go visit them sometimes, even though Derek's already said a thousand times that he will, and Stiles gets bored and starts watching the rest of the pack. Even though everyone's laughing and joking as always, there's something tense in the air. Sad.

Boyd is the one who seems least affected. He's got a scholarship to play lacrosse at University of Miami and he's leaving in a few days, and it doesn't seem like he's going to miss anyone much. Erica, in contrast, has spent the whole summer being a disaster, a bundle of nerves, going from incoherent rage one minute to sweetness the next when she rubs against Derek or Isaac and marks them with her scent. Stiles would be jealous of the nights they spend together if the Alpha didn't show up in his room in the morning, with bags under his eyes and his jaw tight to tell him how worried he is about her, about how afraid she is that she'll be alone again. It's irrational, anyway, because Erica is nice enough when she's not trying to knock you out with parts of your own car, and everything will go fine for her in Arizona. She's sitting next to Isaac, running her leg over his and stealing bits of chicken from him while he talks with Scott and Allison, who haven't separated even for a second.

But he shouldn't talk, because he hasn't left Derek, either. There's something in Derek's body that reassures Stiles that everything's going to turn out fine, somehow, but even so he doesn't want to lose even a moment in these ten days that they have left together.

Scott is still sure he needs to ask Allison to marry him. He didn't return the ring, and he had to do a lot of explaining about where all the money he'd been saving the past year to buy himself a car had gone, but he says it's romantic, that this way when he does ask he'll tell her he's wanted to do it for a long time. Stiles just hopes Allison feels the same way, that her promises of a future aren't empty and that she won't forget them when she gets to Seattle. Sometimes he looks at them and he's sure about why they're together, but he doesn't know if they'll always be. Because there's something so _young_ in the way they love each other, when all they've got in common is that each of them is in love with the other.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks him suddenly.

"Yeah."

"You're sad."

"Yeah," Stiles says, sliding down onto Derek. "I never thought I'd want to stay in high school my whole life."


	30. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And this is the last chapter. This fic has been hard to write and almost impossible to finish, and I just hope that you've enjoyed it even a tiny bit as much as I have, with all those early mornings writing when I just wished I could go to bed, with days when things didn't come out and I had to drag them out just like that, because that's how the challenge works. It's been one of the richest experiences I've had in my life as a writer.
> 
> "Thanks to everyone who made this a fantastic journey. To San for getting me into this mess, to Lleu for convincing me that this was worth the trouble and for translating it, for which I can never thank him enough, to everyone who left kudos and comments. You're awesome."

Stiles leaves the house totally distraught, one kind word away from breaking down into uncontrollable sobbing.

He knows that going away is what he has to do, what everyone does, but abandoning his father like this makes him feel like a terrible person. Derek has told him a thousand times that he has to stop being so paternalistic towards his father, that the Sheriff is an adult and has taken care of himself his whole life and taken care of Stiles besides, which hasn't been exactly easy. But Stiles can't stop thinking about how alone his father's going to be, how there won't be anyone in the house when he comes home at nights after a rough shift and reheats his food in the microwave, and it seems impossibly hard.

His father leans against the window of the Jeep and tells Stiles that he loves him, that he's proud, that he should take care of himself. That he should learn a lot and be happy, and Stiles has to dig his fingernails into his palm, trying to hold back tears. He can't tell his father anything, because he doesn't think he can do it without breaking down, and he doesn't want the sheriff to see how difficult this is for him.

He starts up the car and smiles.

"We'll see each other soon."

His father knocks on the hood of the car and moves away so Stiles can leave, which he does, slowly, looking back in the rear view mirror, still not ready to believe that when he wakes up tomorrow, his father won't be there.

When he turns onto the street going towards the edge of town, he puts on some music and sings along at the top of his lungs, not letting himself think about all the things he's leaving behind.

He's one of the last to go. Allison's parents took her a few days ago, and the MITers left the day before. The goodbyes were short and contained, although Scott couldn't resist a declaration of his eternal love for "Ally". He tells Stiles that over these last two days they've talked on the phone at least fifteen times. Boyd has called once, too, in the week since he left for Miami, and Lydia and Danny have been updating Jackson regularly on the progress of their road trip from coast to coast. Jackson's slowly dying of jealousy.

Stiles has waited until the last minute. He'll just have time to get to campus and move in a little before classes start. He's already been there a few times, once with Derek, because he insisted on making sure there weren't any hostile Alphas in the area. That's what Stiles's life is now. His boyfriend has to sniff the air around the university before feeling safe letting him go.

If he hadn't been so distracted Stiles would have noticed him earlier, but by the time he realizes Derek is standing at the side of the road he's already almost passed him by. He slams on the brakes and looks around. There's still a mile or so to the house, so Derek isn't here by coincidence.

"Are you hitchhiking?" Stiles asks, reaching over to open the passenger door and let Derek in.

"Maybe. Are you going south?"

"First I have to stop by my boyfriend's house. What are you doing here?" he asks, once Derek gets in the car.

"I wanted to have you alone for a bit."

"Last night wasn't enough?"

"No. Not that way, Stiles. I just want..." he starts, but it seems that he can't find the right word, so he just sits there silently, as if that meant anything.

"To stare intensely at me? For a really long time?"

"I was going to say that I'm going to miss you, but that doesn't even come close to— Not even close," he says, with that tone he only uses with Stiles, intimate and soft and a little ashamed of sounding so human. Stiles can't hold back a smile as he holds himself back from running his hands through Derek's hair.

"On a scale of one to ten, one being 'I will think about you every moment day and night' and ten 'I will sing "Run to You" by Whitney Houston while I, in fact, run to you', how much are you going to miss me?"

"Twelve," Derek says, half-smiling, at the edge of blushing. "Twelve million."

"Twelve million and one," Stiles says, stopping the Jeep, not caring that he's in the middle of the road, because nothing ever happens around there.

"Can I ask you something?"

"If you have to ask it's because I'm not going to like it. So no," Stiles says, leaning his head on the seat as he looks at him. "But you're going to do it anyway."

Derek leans over to him, kissing his jaw, and below his ear, and his neck, showing his teeth and closing them on Stiles's skin to bite him lightly.

A shiver runs through Stiles's body, moving quickly down to his crotch.

" _Fuck_. What are you doing?" he says, confused, not sure himself whether he's asking Derek to stop or keep going.

"I'm marking you," Derek says before biting him a bit harder. "I was going to ask, but you would've said no."

"Derek," he groans, running his fingers through his hair and pulling him closer. "There are no supernatural creatures there that are going to try to eat me. Stop that."

"You've had the werewolf mark for a while."

"What's this, then? Are you giving me a hickey?" he asks. "Derek!"

Derek manages to lick the sensitive skin of Stiles's neck before Stiles forces him away. His lips are red and wet and he has the most imperceptible of smiles on his face, and it physically hurts Stiles to not be naked and on top of him at that moment, groaning and sweating and _his_.

"It's not a hickey. It's a mark."

"It's...so high school," Stiles mutters, taking off his seatbelt to be able to look at his neck in the rear-view mirror. "How is this normal? You don't want me to set your picture as the background of my phone because it's cheesy, but giving me hickeys on my neck is perfectly fine."

"I'm sleeping in that picture, Stiles."

"Because if I take a picture of you with your eyes open you look like Cyclops when he takes off his glasses," Stiles says, hitting Derek's chest and pulling up the collar of his t-shirt to try to cover himself, with limited success. "And you're hot and I'm not planning on changing it, so deal."

"I want the whole world to know that—"

"If you say I belong to you..." Stiles threatens, his eyes narrowing.

"I wasn't going to."

"They'll _know_ ," Stiles reassures him, putting a hand on Derek's thigh. "I feel like I'm repeating myself; you're the background of my phone."

"And _that_ 's not high school?"

"I'm in college, Derek," Stiles says, because he likes hearing it.

"You are," Derek says, and something cold and heavy falls over their shoulders. Something that for Stiles is a mix of guilt and a desire to hug Derek and to punch him at the same time.

"Do you hate me?" he asks, squeezing his fingers by Derek's knee. "Because I hate myself sometimes."

"You're doing what's right."

"I know. But it doesn't feel like it."

"I don't hate you. You shouldn't either. A lot of people go to college, and a lot of people leave behind relationships."

"But I'm not most people. And this isn't a normal relationship, Derek, don't pretend it is."

"It's the only one you've had; how do you know?"

"Don't be an asshole right now," Stiles says, but he can't resist smiling, because he knows Derek's right, that he's just trying to make it easier for Stiles, even though it's not working at all. "How many of those relationships last through four years apart?"

"The ones that are worth the effort."

"And you're saying this one is," Stiles says, "but you don't trust me."

"Who said that?"

"You need to mark me."

"I don't trust other people. This won't be like Beacon Hills. They'll see the kind of person you are, intelligent and passionate and loyal."

"And overwhelmingly attractive," Stiles says. "And I'll talk about you until they all hate me, so I'll have no friends pretty soon."

"I'm being serious."

"I know. But I'm choosing to ignore it, because jealousy doesn't suit you. And I already know that you don't understand why I'm with with _you_ , of all people, and that you think I'm going to leave you when I find someone who makes eyes at me in the library, but I'm not going to do it. Because I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone. Because you're the most impressive and most exciting and most fantastic person I've ever met. And maybe I haven't met a lot of people, but I know that there aren't many like you," he says, and laughs cynically. "I'd promised myself I wouldn't give a speech. But listen to my heart and tell me if I've lied to you."

"I know you're not lying, Stiles."

"Then what the fuck is going on?"

Derek looks past the windshield and then down at his hands, and sighs.

"I don't know," he says, his voice small and uncertain. "I'm not sure."

Stiles turns in his seat to lean on Derek over the gear shift. Their legs get tangled and he ends up half falling on top of him, but he manages to get his hands on Derek's shoulders and kiss him, and he realizes why he's avoided doing it the whole time: he doesn't think he can stop, not to turn the car on again and drive to the house, not to say goodbye to what's left of the pack, not to go off to college.

"Everything's going to be fine," he says, as if anything else would be unthinkable, and he brushes Derek's chin with his fingertips. "We're going to be together because we're determined to make it work. It's a foolproof plan."

Derek pulls him over and settles him on his lap as if he weighed nothing, running his hands possessively over Stiles's back, and their lips meet in a fleeting kiss, too short.

"It's the wolf part," he murmurs, brushing his lips on Stiles's neck. "It doesn't want to let you go."

"Well, tell it not to worry."

"It doesn't listen to explanations."

"I don't know why I'm surprised," Stiles says, smiling against Derek's hair. "The human part doesn't either."

"Do you have time for a quick one?" Derek asks, slipping his fingers under Stiles's shirt.

"Yes," Stiles says, even though they don't. Stiles doesn't that last time they do it before he leaves for school to be an uncomfortable, hurried fuck in the Jeep. He wants to make love to Derek, cheesy as it sounds. He wants to spend hours touching him slowly and kissing his collar and his hips and the insides of his wrists, but they don't have time for that. "Fuck, no. Really I don't." And he steals two more kisses, three, one last one at the corner of his mouth before leaning his forehead on Derek's shoulder. "We're going to sit like this for five minutes, okay?"

"Yes," Derek says, putting his hands around Stiles's waist and drawing him closer to him. And for Stiles, that's enough. The only thing he needs is to have Derek close to him and feel his heartbeat under the palm of his hand. To know that Derek is there.

"Come with me," Stiles says, and an edge of begging creeps into his voice.

"I can't."

"You've only got one semester left to graduate."

"In New York," Derek reminds him.

"You could try to transfer..."

"It's a little late for that now. Classes start in three days."

"Next semester. There has to be a way," Stiles insists.

"Stiles," Derek says, putting a hand around his neck. "You're going to be fine."

"And will _you_ be fine?"

"Yes."

"Don't lie to me," Stiles says, his forehead wrinkling.

"I can't leave my territory, with everything that's been going on around here."

"But you can't control it by yourself, with no pack."

"Isaac and Scott are strong. And Beacon Hills needs me."

" _I_ need you. And you're not Batman. Stop talking like Batman."

"I'm the closest thing this town has to a superhero," Derek says, smiling smugly, but Stiles can see in his eyes that he's afraid of everything in the world. Of letting Stiles go, of being alone and not being able to protect his territory and his pack, that Stiles will forget him. Of not being strong enough to handle any of those things.

"I want to go, but I don't want to have to go. I don't want to leave you, or my father, or Scott and the others. I didn't think this was going to be so hard."

"Let's go home," Derek says, moving his hands to Stiles's legs. "You've got a long trip ahead of you."

"Yeah," Stiles says, but even so he doesn't move. "I love you. I feel like I don't tell you enough."

"You do," Derek says, looking him in the eye.

"Really? Do I do it too much?"

"Stiles..."

"Okay. Let's go," he murmurs finally, biting his lip. He smiles at Derek one last time and tries to disentangle his legs to get back in his seat, with difficulty. He starts the car and drives towards the house in silence, feeling Derek's eyes locked on him. They don't talk in the five minutes it takes them to get there, because Stiles really doesn't know what else he can say. Nothing that he says will solve anything or make either of them feel better. He can't stop thinking about it; he's tired of looking for solutions and realizing that there aren't any, that what they're doing is normal and logical and sane. And even so he can't stop feeling as if going to college means leaving behind the most important part of him.

As soon as the car pulls up to the driveway, the four wolves show up at the door. Isaac is drying his hands on a green apron and Scott carrying a mountain of plates and cups in his hands.

"We made breakfast!" Scott calls, passing everything to Jackson, almost letting half of Derek's dishware fall on the ground. "You've got ten minutes to eat, right?"

"I guess," Stiles says, glancing at Derek, who shrugs. Scott gestures them inside to the kitchen. It smells like bacon and scrambled eggs and toast, and it would be awesome if Stiles didn't have a lump in his throat the size of a small elephant.

They eat breakfast, and they try to make it seem like it's no big deal. Scott puts the crispiest pieces of bacon on his plate and the most burned toast, just like Stiles likes them, because that's what best friends do. Stiles eats because he feels he has to, and because he really doesn't want to have to stop too many times on the raod, but it's hard to swalow, and it's hard to look up from the plate to look at his pack. Isaac is eating in silence next to Erica. Scott is scarfing down his food, and Jackson is talking about Princeton and pretending he wants to leave, while the rest of them are pretending they believe him.

"I really think you'll be fine there," Stiles finds himself saying. "They'll all be rich kids with big cars and emotional problems, so maybe you won't be the _most_ unbearable dick there."

"I thought I was going to miss you," Jackson says, looking up over his glass of juice. "Thanks for reminding me I was wrong."

Scott laughs, and Jackson's mouth twists slightly with amusement as he throws a crumpled napkin at Stiles that ends up landing on Derek.

"If you start a food fight I'm going to have to use the Alpha voice," Derek says threateningly, in that tone that says he doesn't really want to get angry.

"I'm not going to clean ketchup off the floor," Erica says through a mouth full of toast.

"Do you want anything else?" Scott asks. Scott has never been this attentive in his life; Stiles is sure he'd take the food out of his own mouth and give it to him if he asked.

"No. Really I should get going," Stiles says, getting up, and Scott gets up, too.

"We made you some sandwiches, so you can eat something on the road."

"You didn't have to."

"Dude, let me take care of you a little. I'll go get them, wait a second."

"Okay," Stiles mutters, and he watches Scott running around looking for them. Derek, next to him, is standing up now, too, still chewing a bit of the same piece of toast that he's been trying to eat this whole time. "Are we going to do that thing where I say goodbye out in front of the car? Because I don't think I can do it. I can— Can we pretend we're going to see each other tomorrow? As if I wasn't going to the other end of the state?"

"No," Isaac says. "We're not letting you go without a Stilinski hug for each of us."

"Do you _want_ to kill me?"

"They can say goodbye to you on the porch, if that would make you less uncomfortable," Derek says sagely. At this point, the only thing Stiles wants is to save himself the trouble and leave. He doesn't want to cry; he doesn't want to show off yet again how weak he is compared to the rest of them.

"Sure, because this isn't uncomfortable at all. Come on, I've got ten hours of driving to go. Let's get this over with already," Stiles says, opening his arms. Erica and Isaac grab him between them and lift him up in the air, rubbing against his neck and whispering things to him as if Derek couldn't hear them.

"Be careful. Don't do anything that'll make Derek mad, because later he'll take it out on us."

"I'm not going to—what do you think I'm going to do?"

"Be good, you."

"I will be. Now put me down, please," Stiles asks, waving his feet in the air until they touch down on the something solid again. When he pulls away from them he could swear that Isaac's eyes are shining a little too brightly.

"Stilinski," Jackson says, taking him by surprise in a one-armed hug. "The terror of serial killers everywhere."

"Not just serial killers: all kinds of psychopaths," Stiles says, patting him on the back a few times. "Careful, I've got my eye on you," he jokes, trying not to pay attention to the way Jackson rubs his nose in Stiles's hair.

"I've never found you funny at all," Jackson says, and Stiles has to laugh.

"I guess I won't try to call you, then."

"Yeah, better not. Take care."

"You, too," Stiles says, and he's surprised to realize that he really does want that. "If I'd had a say in Derek's decision to turn you... Damn, my life would have been a lot easier."

Derek smiles next to him, and Stiles looks around for Scott, because he can't leave without saying goodbye to him. He shows up suddenly, jumping on Stiles and almost knocking him to the ground, and he just holds Stiles in his arms for a long time while Stiles grabs his jacket forcefully. They stand without moving, almost without breathing, and it's then that it starts to be hard to ignore the the pressure in his chest and the sharpness of the tears behind his eyes. Because he can't remember a single day since he's been old enough to remember where Scott hasn't been there, being a shitty best friend and a total idiot and the best person in the world. Through his mother's death and Scott's parents' divorce, throught the bite and full moons when he wanted to eat Stiles, even with Allison and Derek and everything that happened in between, Scott has been his best friend. And he can't imagine his life without turning around in class to see him there, without having to sneak him half the answers on tests, without spending afternoons in detention because they don't know when to shut up. He can't imagine weekends without Scott stretched out on his couch eating whole bags of potato chips and drinking all his sodas while the Sheriff is on duty.

"Don't eat too much ramen," Scott says, putting his hands on Stiles's cheek. "It's filled with additives. And here, take your sandwiches," he says, smiling and picking up the bag from the ground. "And send us letters. Real letters, so they come with your smell."

" _That_ 's not weird at all," Stiles says sarcastically, blinking hard and forcing himself to smile.

"I love you a ton, dude. What am I going to do without you?" Scott says, his voice low, hugging Stiles again. "If it weren't for you I'd have died twenty times just in the last week. Call us all the time, okay?"

"Okay."

"Really, do it."

"I _will_. As soon as I'm in the _car_ I'll call to tell you I've gotten there all right."

"Shut up. Go now, before I start crying," Scott says, shoving him towards the car. Stiles takes the bag in hand and walks a few steps backwards, still looking at Scott, clenching his jaw before turning around when he sees Erica take Scott's hand tenderly.

"Fuck," he says, hardly making a sound, turning to see Derek leaning on the hood of the Jeep, and he slows down a little to give himself time to breathe a few times before Derek leaves him breathless again. "Give me a kiss and let me go, because I think I'm going to die," Stiles says, when he gets to Derek and leans against his chest.

"You're not going to die," Derek says, putting one hand around his neck and the other around his waist.

"I'm just going to college, I'm not going to war. Irvine isn't so far," he says, trying to convince himself. "I'll come back for vacations, and weekends sometimes. And you guys will come see me. Right? You'll come visit me, Derek. And I'll call you so many times a day that you won't have time to miss me."

"Yes."

"Why does this feel harder than anything I've done in my life?"

"It'll get easier with time."

"Yeah?"

"Everything gets easier."

"Okay," Stiles says, pulling his head away from Derek's chest and stretching to get to Derek's height. "I'm going. Take care of my dad, okay?" he says, and he can't stop his voice breaking.

"I promise," Derek says firmly, drawing Stiles into his arms again. And when he kisses Stiles with his eyes closed and his lips soft and slightly desperate, Stiles fixes it in his memory, every brush of his tongue, every corner of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers on Stiles's skin. "It's getting late," Derek murmurs.

"I know."

It's unreal. He's going to get in the car and leave for four years, and somehow he hopes that everything will be the same when he gets back. He hopes that missing won't make him forget, forget the real Derek. The one who gets up to go to the bathroom twice every night and wakes Stiles up, the one who's sometimes hostile and hurtful just because he has to get the pain out of his body somehow, the one who after all this time doesn't know how to show Stiles that he loves him. He knows he's not going to forget the good parts, but he doesn't want to forget the bad either.

"Drive carefully. Call me when you get there."

"Okay," he says, opening the car door, and kisses Derek one last time before he gets in. He squeezes his hands on the steering wheel until it hurts and looks at him, understanding everything Derek isn't able to say in the way he purses his lips and frowns and hunches his shoulders.

"Okay."

Stiles doesn't have anything left to say either, so he puts on his seatbelt, starts the motor, and turns to Derek again.

"See you."

Derek nods and takes a step back from the car. Stiles just has to step on the accelerator and suddenly he's on his way. It's real now. He looks in the rear-view mirror and sees Scott waving goodbye with his arm in the air and Derek next to him, looking colder than Stiles has seen him in years, so Stiles sticks his hand out the window for a second before turning and disappearing among the trees.

He almost hopes to see the enormous shape of a wolf running along beside him through the forest, or to hear the sound of his howl. He's hoping for a dramatic gesture, but nothing happens. There's just Stiles and the highway that will take him south. So he puts on music and sings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translator's note:** Well, here we are: seven-odd months and one New Year later, the story is done in English. To those of you who read no Spanish: I'm sorry you haven't been able to read this in the original. tuai's style is a delight to read, and I know for a fact I haven't been able to capture the elegance of it (I lost some sleep in particular over a sentence in chapter eleven), but I hope I've been able to add something of my own to make up for it. I'd also like to apologize for the long delay in posting the last few chapters: college got in the way, mostly, but also I, like Stiles, had to "slow down a little to give [myself] time to breathe a few times before Derek le[ft me] breathless again". I also hesitated because, as a fictional character once said to his author: "You never dream the same dream twice. What you dream again and believe to be me will be someone else."* But dreams have endings, and this one's has arrived.
> 
> In any case, on with the sappy concluding note. I've got two people in particular to thank: tuai, for having written the story in the first place (and especially for allowing me to translate it), and tequila_mockingbyrd, for bearing with me and betaing the translation. I couldn't have done this without both of you.
> 
> A tuai: ya lo he hecho algunas veces, pero tengo que agradecerte una vez más para lo que ha sido esta historia para mí y por haberme prestado tus personajes: te los devuelvo ahora (aunque me siento que sean, de algún modo, una parte de mí ahora); espero no haberles hecho demasiado daño.
> 
> tequila_mockingbyrd: I promise it's better in the original Spanish, but it wouldn't be what it is in English without your help, so thank you.
> 
> And to whoever reads this: I hope I've been able to share even a small fraction of the pleasure I've gotten from this story.
> 
> * The ghost of Augusto Pérez in Miguel de Unamuno's novel _Mist_ ( _Niebla_ en el español original).


End file.
